
Class _P_i_3£Z:J5 

Book X34^7 

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COPYRIGHT DEPOSrr 



The Crows Nest 

and Other ^oems 

FLORENCE EMILY NICHOLSON 




RICHARD G. BADGER 

THE GORHAM PRESS 
BOSTON 



COPYRIGHT 1912 BY FLORENCE EMILY NICHOLSON 



All Rights Reserved 






THE GORHAM PRESS, BOSTON, U. S. A. 



V 

€CLA3I2432 



TO THE MEMORY OF MY BELOVED MOTHER 

THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS 

DEDICATED 



Kow can I limn thee, hotv the least devise 
To paint the beauty that did dwell in theef 
I falter with my trembling hands unfree, 
Unsure; to fail a hair's breadth but implies 
To miss the radiance of lips and eyes — 
The soul where blossomed fair and fruitfully 
The sweet beatitudes, the charity, 
The love and hope ivhich over death can rise. 
That dear companionship in which I grew. 
Could I portray, what gems would I compose — 
Yet past belief, as one who paints the view 
Of sunset splendour, gold and burning rose, 
On some rare eve, yet none will think it true, 
Though he attempt but part of what he knows! 



UUiMJi;i\T». 


PAGE 


SONNET DEDICATORY 


4 


The Crow's Nest 


9 


Via Longa 


12 


The Scholars 


17 


The Isles of the Blest 


18 


To Demeter 


20 


To the Nuns of Sopwell 


24 


Butterflies 


29 


The Katy-Dids 


31 


I Pass the Beggars All hy Each Day 


32 


The Birthright 


34 


Titles and Heads 


36 


Old Kate 


38 


Vn fulfilment 


41 


Sleep -^ 


42 


Midnight 


43 


After 


44 


Best or Quest f 


45 


Bahy Song 


46 


Spring Song 


48 


Sesame 


49 


My Mother 


50 


To My Mother 


52 


What of Thine Eye 


53 


The Cathedral 


57 


The Magic Ring 


61 


Misfits 


62 


Paraphrased from Victor Hugo 


63 


The Entomologist 


64 


The Nectar of Life 


67 


A Little Child Sat on My Knee 


68 


To the Rook 


69 


To a Roman Latch-Key 


70 


Affinity 


71 


Love's Magic 


74 


To My Sweetheart 


76 


If I Could Choose 


78 



I Know My Love is True 


79 


Penumbra 


81 


To My Sweetheart 


82 


Only One 


84 


SONNETS:— 




Proscrastination 


85 


Forget-me-nots 


86 


Christmas Sonnet 


87 


To the Men who Proclaimed the Bepuhlic 




of Portugal, Oct. 4, 1910 


88 


No Window Tax 


89 


A NoMe Lord Set Sail 


90 


Discordia 


91 


From My Window 


92 


The Poet's Lamp 


93 


To Keats 


94 


To Robert Browning 


95 


To Shakespeare 


96 


■ The Unremembered Bards 


97 


Within a Mountain Valley 


98 


The Spider 


99 


I Open Doors and Doors 


100 


Immortalitas 


101 


The Voyager 


102 


Would I Return? 


103 


The Over-Plus 


104 


Twilight 


105 


On the Death of Dear Friends 


106 


The Quest 


107 


A Haunting Vision 


108 


The Lilt 


109 


Open Windows 


110 


Memory 


111 


My Childhood Home 


112 


Death 


113 


To the Skylarks 


114 


Fate 


115 


MICHAEL MORE 


116 



The Crows Nest 

and Other Poems 



THE CROW'S NEST 

Over the wondrous siren deep 
I sail with never a time for sleep; 
I hear the winds in the rigging howl; 
I see in the West the tempest scowl; 
But I trust my soul may the vigil keep! 

"Still awake?" I cry, 

And the loud reply: 
"All's well!" from the crow's nest. 

Over the oily, satin sea, 

When the zephyrs blow caressingly. 

On the flowing lights is a copper sheen, 

And the white clouds drift on the hyaline, — 

'Tis a fairy ship on a painted sea ! 

' ' 'Tis a dream ! " I cry, 

And the soft reply: 
"All's well!" from the crow's nest. 

In the waning day, when the sun drops low, 
And the West is filled with a yellow glow, 
And a flaming path of molten gold 
Is traced o'er the blue to my good ship's hold, 
And the low clouds look like a city so : 
" 'Tis the bourne!" I cry. 
And the glad reply : 
"All's well!" from the crow's nest. 

When the rosy-red rhododendron sky 
Is a flowery June where my dream-lands lie, 
And the lilac sea is a shimmering mass 
With the pink petals strewn on its liquid glass. 
Then I shout with joy as I look on high: 
" 'Tis a bonny sky!" 
And the same reply : 
"All's well!" from the crow's nest. 



9 



When the twilight grays all the fading bloom, 
And the slate sea takes on the growing gloom, 
When the blinding darkness enshadows all, 
And the black deep heaves 'neath its funeral 

pall, 
And the spectral thing would my barque entomb, 
Then I cry with fear ; 
But the answer clear: 
"All's well!" from the crow's nest. 

,1 
But the stars come out in the ebony night, 
And they sprinkle the waves with diamonds 

bright ; 
Or the moon swims clear in the fleecy snow 
Of the gossamer clouds as they melt and go, 
And she spills a stream of her dancing light. 
' ' Still awake up there ? ' ' 
And the answer fair : 
"All's well!" from the crow's nest. 

When the fog comes up for the wild-rose dawn. 
In a thick white shroud o 'er the waters drawn, 
And my garments wet like a heavy dew, 
With never a bit of the sea in view, 
And I fear for my ship, should she travel on, 

"Shall we stop?" I cry. 

But the same reply : 
"All's well!" from the crow's nest. 

When the wind-swept waves rise to mountains 

high, 
And my ship dips low, or would scrape the sky. 
When she groans and creaks as she feels the 

sway, 
And my face is bathed in the cold salt spray. 
Then I shout aloud, "We are doomed to die! 

10 



"What's the use?" I cry, 
But the strong reply : 
"All's well!" from the crow's nest. 

I found myself on this phantom ship. 
I know not the maker, nor who let slip 
Her hawsers tied to some mooring far, 
No port more near than the evening star. 
Straight ahead the same let her good keel skip ! 
"Keep awake," I cry, 
And the quick reply : 
"All's well!" from the crow's nest. 

O I love the chance that did fall to me. 

So to sail away on this changing sea, 

And I love the sun on the twinkling deep. 

Or the wind-wild waves when my deck they 

sweep, 
Sure no derelict will she ever be! 
' ' Keep a watch, ' ' I say. 
And the answer: "Yea," 
"All's well!" from the crow's nest. 

Is a port ahead o 'er the heaving main, 
With no rows of lights in the harbour plain? 
With a wind-red face, shall I find it lies 
Farther out and beyond those receding skies? 
So Columbus hoped, and they called it vain! 

' ' Speed away ! " I cry, 

And the sure reply: 
"All's well!" from the crow's nest. 



11 



VIA LONGA 

On a sultry morn 
As I strayed forlorn, 
From the dust and the lust, 
From the toil and the spoil, 
From the city's heat 
And the endless beat 
Of the many feet 
As they tramp the street, 
As I strayed and strayed, 
With my soul dismayed 
I chanced on a cool retreat. 

'Twas a country road 
That did ease my load. 
And my heart grew gay 
With the breath of day, 
With the scent of hay, 
In the new-mown fields, 
And the bright array 
Of the sweet bouquet 
That the Summer yields. 
So I lay me down. 
Far away from town. 
In a grassy bed 
Where the poppies red 
For my couch had spread 
An embroidered silken gown. 
Oh! the sky overhead, 
Where the white clouds sped 
In the gentle westerly breeze, 
Was as blue as blue 
With a violet hue 
Of the tranquil tropic seas. 
And the shade of trees 

12 



On the waving grass, 

And the hum of bees 

As they come and pass, 

Filled my frame with blissful ease. 

So from swoon to swoon, 

In the heart of noon, 

I fell into deathlike sleep. 

Then my soul did peep 

From the barred keep 

Of its prison stealthily, — 

'Twas a loosened bar — 

Then out afar 

I fled so silently. 

Over brake and brier, 

Through the mud and mire, 

With a mad desire. 

And my zeal afire 

To find some untrod way. 

"We have all gone wrong," 

Was my endless song, 

"And I hate the great white road, 

Oh, I hate to plod from day to day 

And to carry the heavy load ! 

There's a shorter cut 

Than the worn old rut. 

There's a fresher, newer way." 

So I ran and flew 

Till the Summer dew 

And the twilight came apace; 

Till my feet were sore. 

Nor could travel more. 

For it was a thorny place. 

Then the night came on. 

And my hope was gone, 

For the night was black, 



13 



And I lost all track 

How to travel back; 

So I laid me down to die. 

Then a voice as sweet 

Did my soul entreat, 

As sweet as a lullaby, 

Or a lark in the deep June sky : 

"Dear love, you have travelled far, 

But in a circle, sweet. 

Shall I tell you where you are? 

The road is at your feet. 

But you might have perished, dear. 

There are marshes where the lilies grow, 

And quicksands where the rivers flow, 

And many a place there is to fear 

Amid the enticing green." 

"But the road was so dreary 

And I was so weary. 

When never the end is seen, ' ' 

I said as I heaved a sigh. 

Then she answered: "I'll tell you why. 

There is many a curve 

Round the hills which serve 

To block the distant view. 

There are many curves. 

But they fall in line 

From the top of the hill. 

If you will but climb. 

And the breeze is wine 

To your shattered nerves ; 

So come with me if you will. ' ' 

And I climbed, and lo ! 
The road stretched white. 
Far, far, to the glow 

14 



At the uttermost verge, 

Where a shimmering line 

Of the dawning light 

Ran gold where the sun would emerge — 

Red gold in the violet night. 

Then her voice was low 

As the murmur of streams, 

Or a faint far chime 

In the twilight time, 

When the West still faintly gleams : 

" Oh ! they think they know — 

Those who turn away 

From the road the ages go ; 

But they circle back 

If they can essay 

To reach the beaten track. 

And still the bigot has his 'nay' 

To which the weakling joins his 'yea;' 

But the one on the hill-top knows." 

Then I turned to her, and lo ! 

In her face was a wondrous glow, 

And her cheeks like the rose. 

And her hair like the shade 

That the moonbeams throw 

When they flood a fairy glade ; 

And her eyes like the sea 

In the ebony night 

When its mirror is sprinkled with stars ; 

And her garments white, 

In the growing light 

Had a glint like the red of Mars. 

Then a blue mist shrouded her light from me, 
A mist in the early dawn. 
Yet there floated to me, 

15 



As she gilded away, 
Such a note as the minstrelsy 
Of the birds at break of day : 
"If yon wish to meet the dawn, 
Go on, and on, and on; 
Do not stop, nor stray 
From the great white way, 
If you wish to meet the dawn. ' ' 



16 



THE SCHOLARS 

"We are the gleaners, we, 

And the scattered grain is ours. 

We came in the dawn where the reapers be. 

And we stay for the sunset flowers. 

the buxom day is a lavish one! 

But the reapers are reaping for pay. 

They will have poor wheat when the day is done, 

But many a sheaf for display. 

For the noon is long, and to sleep is sweet, 
And after the wine there is time to reap, 
And 'tis only the gleaners who see the cheat, 
When the pile is made in a showy heap. 

But all day long we have picked the best 
Till the crystal bell in the distance tolled. 
When we bend our steps to the burning West, 
And our armfuls turn into gleaming gold. 

A touch of flame to the turban red, 

And each way-worn gown to enchantment 

yields ; 
While all of the rest have long since fled, 
And we are alone in the yellow fields. 



17 



THE ISLES OF THE BLEST 

Calm seas, blue seas, 
Waft me so drowsily on, far ; 

Soft breeze, sweet breeze, 
LuUingly blow me where Junes are, 
Gardens where apples of gold glow, 
Lilies and roses of red grow; 

Tranquilly blow, blow, 

Lullabies low, low, 
Sleepily so, to the Isles of the Blest. 

Day-tide, on, wide. 
Over the changeable green-blue ; 

Dawn-dyed, eve-dyed, 
Tinct is the sea with the sky hue. 
Pink are the dawns, and the West glows, 
Golden, vermillion, and rich rose ; 

Banners so gay play 

Over the sea-way. 
Splendidly ride we to Isles of the Blest. 

White sails, puffed sails, 
Brimming with breezes of down blown ; 

Hushed gales, soft gales. 
Zephyrs with spices are sweet sown. 
Whispering songs that they waft far, 
Blowing where islands of dawn are; 

Southerly ride we. 

Peacefully glide we. 
Out to the beautiful Isles of the Blest. 

Moonlight, full bright; 
Moveless, the shadowy sail gleams 

Soft white, pearl white. 
Splashed with the silvery moonbeams. 

18 



Silvery grey with a faint green 
Tipped are the ripples with moon-sheen; 
Shadowy night-time 
Shimmers with moonshine — 
Glimmers the way to the Isles of the Blest. 

Mild beams, wan gleams, 
Floating are we on the moonlight; 

All seems pale dreams, 
Waking and sleep are the same, quite; 
Echoes we hear as of harp strings ; 
Flashing of oars as we pass brings 

Slumberous dip, drip; 

Drifting we slip, slip. 
Into sweet dreams of the Isles of the Blest. 

Calm whiles, sweet whiles, 
Nearing the Isles in a dream-sleep ; 

Bright Isles, fair Isles, 
Scattered like stars on the wine-deep; 
Oh, what a sight when the dawn breaks, 
Glistening view when the soul wakes ! 

Jewelled, they all rise. 

Tinted with dawn-skies. 
Hail! to the marvellous Isles of the Blest. 



19 



TO DEMETER* 

Do you still dream of her, 
You of the sad uplifted eyes, 
AVhose bliss the fates defer? 
Long seated on that rock-hewn chair, 
What do you still await, 
sad Demeter! hoping that 
She yet may come, though late? 
Afar and lone you are, nor may arise 
The marble cliffs and meadows fair, 
The hills and fragrant air. 
The shrine where once you sat 
When, far beneath you, rolled the sea 
That danced with laughing wave 
And garlanded with foam 
The level sands, the rocks, in jollity. 
When Hades to your longing gave 
The sweetest respite, bringing home 
Your dear Persephone. 

Ah, sad were you on that far day, 

When, there amid the meadows strewn 

With lily, iris, crimson rose. 

And purple hyacinth, at play 

With maidens, all with joy atune. 

She bent to pluck the sweet that grows 

For mortal bane. 
How pierced your heart that shrill, sad cry ! 
And she was gone, nor knew you where, 

Nor came to you again 
All darkly clad, you searched the earth so fair, 

Wide-wayed and far, 

*The seated Demeter, now in the British Museum, 
was found in 1857 by Sir Charles Newton, near Cnidos, 
in the ruins of an ancient shrine overlooking the 
Mediterranean. 

20 



Where strangers are, 

In duress dire, 
With torches, in your hands, afire. 
And speechless sat in many halls, 
Sweet-echoing, nor tasted wine nor meat, 
So deep was your mute agony; 
And pitiful would strangers be 
Who knew the sAveet Persephone 
Had gone where no foot falls, 
So soft the step of shades. 
And you, all wasted with your grief, 
Did doom the earth to blight, 
And sad the year without a leaf, 
Or barley blade, when crooked ploughs in vain 
Turned the fresh earth to light. 
No spears pushed off the powdered earth. 
Nor hung with bended ears. 
Aye, terrible and long the years 

You doomed to dearth, 

A blighting bane. 
Then Iris came, all wind-wild sped. 
Swift-fanned through fragrant space, 
Entreated much and kindly plead 
That you would bend with grace 
To favour earth with bloom; 

But all in vain ! 
Came all the blessed gods, each one, 

To light the gloom. 
And offered shining gifts to you; 
But still you did mthhold. 
For that dear face were boon to view, 
Beyond the meed of gold. 

So turned you from their shining light. 
For you the day was night, 
Till that far-seeing one 

21 



Who on Olympus dwelt, 

More glowing than the sun 

That ever mortal felt, 

Did with his softest word persuade, 

And Hades then a promise made 

To bring her to your sight. 

O happiness ! What gracious boon ! 

She would be with you soon. 

When fields were flowery sweet, 

joy! dispelling gloom, 

And bubbling o'er the brim, 
She leapt to you along the meadow grass, 

All high with bloom, 
And held her garment, setting free 
The movement of her twinkling feet 

And ankles slim. 
Scarce touching sward as she did pass. 
Her crocus-yellow curls did dance 
And with the sunbeams glance. 
With outstretched arms, how she did greet 
Your smiling lips with kisses sweet 

And happy words ! 
Pier taste of death caused you a fear. 
Yet she was yours two-thirds 

Of all the year. 

But you are far removed from there, — 

Aye, far indeed ! 
Blank walls encompass you about. 

No pleasant mead 
For you, nor can look out 
For her you long to see. 
Around you, faces but a semblance wear, 
Rock-bound in nameless dreams. 
And mutilated forms whose meaning seems 

A blank to you and me. 

22 



Do you still dream of your Persephone, 

Who still is young and fair, 

Who never comes again to you ; 

Of Spring deferred and far 

As your fair lands and temples are? 

A shadow of a memory ! 

Your Avorld departed, too, 

Both men and gods, all gone, 

Long, long withdrawn. 
From out this world of seasons made, 
To shadows in the realms of shade! 



23 



TO THE NUNS OF SOPWELL* 

pure, devout, but selfish, souls 
Who did your heaven seek 

By still denying earth, 

As trembling votarists and meek, 

Whom fear controlls. 

Of nectar dearth, 
You sopped your dry crust 

In the holy well, j 

And closed your doors. 

1 see those faces doomed to dust, 

So fair and sweet, 

With hope replete, 
And burning cheeks that tell 
A pulsing heart for purpose high, 

That joy ignores. 

Not knowing why. 
What springing step ! How looked the white 
And pink beneath that veil of night, 
W^hen you first entered there, 
And heard the bolts and locks, 
Where never lover knocks; 
Nor need that you be fair. 
And then the long, long days ! 
The fastings, and the prayer 

So often said, 

The meaning fled. 
The vigils in the night 
Wlien chastisement essays 
To make the spirit shine 
And save your souls from sin, 
That you might stand in line, 
With hope to enter in 

*Sopwen Nunnery was founded circa 1140, A. D., in 
the outskirts of St. Albans, England. The ruins are 
still standing. 

24 



Some far-off pearly gate, 
And walk some golden street. 
And all the joys of life's estate, 
The happy love that makes it sweet, 

Forever were denied, 
That you might be the bride 
Of Christ — but not the one 
Who spoke from mountain height, 
Who out of doors, in air and sun 

Did dwell in Palestine. 
How cold you were, austere and lone, 
All sepulchred in grey, 
Your memories bleached white. 
As grass beneath a stone, 
Your visions barren lay 
As landscapes of the moon. 
While kneeling at your shrine 
You strung your rosaries with muttered tune, 
And bought yoiu' heaven in a poke, 

With earth for pay. 
Ah ! did your purchase kick the beam 

With ringing stroke? 

who can say! 
Your heaven, where, where ! 
O worlds on worlds, an endless chain ! 
O time and tide that ceaseless flow ! 
How little kenned! How very vain 
To say we know what we but dream, 
Or but another's dream rehearse, 
When in this boundless universe 
Not e'en this little earth we know, 
Nor guess her secrets hidden there ! 

pure and foolish nuns ! 
good and selfish ones 

Of bloodless chastity 

25 



And fictioned sanctity, 
Denying joy for empty name ! 
Could heaven be good and earth be bad, 
The God of both the same? 
Could you know sweetness if it came to you^ 
Long chewing bitter herbs? 
luscious joy that may be had 
By living, 'spite the share of pain! 
And giving joy cannot be vain. 

Nor the relief of pain. 
But you, disdaining meat, your due, 
Your hunger long repressed ; 
No appetite for you disturbs 

An apathy unblessed, 

Unable to be fed, 

Because a life you led 

Of long despising food. 

happy earth, and changing year. 

Where pain and grief are mixed with good! 

The shining eyes of children in the doors 

Of cottages in row. 

Their faces all aglow. 
Their laugh so full of cheer. 
Their gambol in the lanes; 
The skylark singing as he soars 

Above the meadow lands ; 
The matrons -with the busy hands 

That many blessings yield; 
The ploughman with his hope for gains 
From off the red-brown field. 
Where lapwings rise, a cloud of shade and snow ; 
And cattle wading to the knee 

In buttercups and grass; 
The call of milkmen ringing free 
As down the lanes they pass; 

26 



The woods all mauve with tall bluebells; 
And apple blossoms in the garden plots, 
With lilac scenting all the air; 
And every bush and tree holds some bird's nest; 
And 'long the roads are blue forget-me-nots ; 
Chrysalides aburst with butterflies 

That shimmer everywhere, 
And loud the flute notes from the dells, 
Of rhapsodies the loveliest — 
noisy earth, what pleasure lies 

In all thy varied tune. 
In hum of bee and changing call, 
From cricket to the lowing kine ! 
Too soon the silence for us all. 
Too soon the dark, too soon ! 

red ripe earth! 

warm rich blood, 
Pulsing with Spring and song 

In joyous flood ! 
To you denied, how long ! 
So long you scarcely marked the dearth. 
Or knew the sun could shine. 

Nor were you thrilled, 
Save with one hope, imagined sweet; 
As one who in assembly great. 
Should farther seek a seat. 
And, missing it, returns 
To find what he refused is filled; 
Or one, who seeking flowers, burns 
To find some other than he sees. 
And, plucking not, with hope elate, 
Is stopped with empty hands, dismayed, 
When he has met the night. 

foolish virgins, with your oil-less lamps, 
Who dwelt within your greys and damps ! 

27 



How could you hope for joy 

You still might get without alloy? 

How could it be, 
AVith all your joy decayed? 
O happy toil and human frailty. 
And pains no need to name! 
These are the wax to feed the candle flame. 
The stretch of earth, for exercise. 
We need while we are here the whiles ; 
Not prison floors, nor abbey aisles. 

And now your sacred tenement 
Has for a roof the azure skies ; 
Your prison walls are open now, 
And in and out the wild bird flies. 
Your windows, widely rent, 

Let in the bees, 

And fragrant breeze; 
And all the walls are ivy-grown. 
And on their tops are flowers blown. 

And waving grass. 
For all must still to Nature bow — 
She opens at the top when doors are barred. 
No prison bars has she, 
For they are made by man; 
Despite his well constructed plan, 
She, in some sweet futurity. 
Remakes what he has marred. 

sad lost days and lives, 

And pleasure that survives ! 

Perchance the fragrant kine 

That 'round your crumbling temple pass, 

Your desecrated shrine. 
Are wiser far, as moving slow. 
They munch the daisies, as they grow, 
And buttercups with daily grass. 

28 



BUTTERFLIES 

Beautiful butterflies, all in a row, 
In a curio window were put up for show; 
When a poet was passing the shop one day, 
And he stopped by the window to note the 

array. 
There were scarlet, and amber, and sapphire 

blue, 
There were purple, and yellow, and orange too, 
With such wonderful blendings of bronze and 

green, 
Such marvels of coloring rarely are seen. 
With a pin in each heart they were rigid and 

cold. 
They were mummies of poesy, legends untold, 
Which no purchaser knew as he laid down the 

gold ; 
But they whispered the poet a wonderful dream : 
"We flew with the breezes in sunlight agleam; 
We were cut from the rainbow and sprinkled 

like showers 
O'er meadows of clover and fields of wild 

flowers ; 
We fluttered on orchards of pink and white 

bloom ; 
On breezes which wafted the mingled perfume 
Of sweet country gardens, of lilacs in plume, 
Of violets cold in the fresh dewy morn. 
Of lavender, cowslip, and yellowing corn ; 
O'er sweeps of lush grasses with sunlight aglow, 
All powdered with daisies like new-fallen snow ; 
We flashed a gold sunbeam o'er heather-blown 

hills. 
O'er buttercups dancing along the bright rills. 

29 



Then deep into shadows where, quiet and cool, 
The ferns and rich mosses embroider a pool, 
Where pale virgin lilies bend over with grace 
To see in the mirror each spotless white face. 
We poised on their petals as prisms of light, 
And flashed in the water as stars in the night. 
On breezes of dawn when Aurora was rose 
And saffron in splendour, and all the mead 

glows. 
In tapestried velvets we floated on air. 
On incense of blossoms, the earth's morning 

prayer. 
Our day was all glory, all beauty was ours. 
We basked in the sunshine, and dined on the 

flowers. 
But now we are stark and mere specimens all, 
And who can, who sees us, these visions recall 1 ' ' 

" 'Tis true," quoth the poet, "e'en so, and still 

worse 
When I catch my fine fancies and pin them to 

verse. ' ' 



30 



THE KATY-DIDS 

Before the leaves begin to turn, 
But Autumn hints are in the air, 
When winds among the branches yearn, 
And mellowness is everywhere. 
The katy-dids begin to sing, 
And all the woods begin to ring 
With ''katy-did" and "didn't." 

When dusky grows the copse and glade, 
Before the stars are gleaming bright. 
When in the shadows softly laid, 
The fire-flies are flashing light, 
The katy-dids begin to sing 
An endless, endless note they ring 
Of "katy-did" and '^didn't." 

We sit upon the porch and muse 
When all the work of day is done. 
About their still diverging views, 
For neither yet has ever won ; 

In all the years and years they sing 
It is the same disputed thing — 
Of "katy-did" and "didn't." 

And so do we dogmatic prate 
With yea and nay of things unknown. 
The why and whence of life 's estate. 
The whither of the spirits flown ; 
And all the ages ever sing. 
But never final answer bring 

To "katy-did" and "didn't." 



31 



I PASS THE BEGGARS ALL BY EACH DAY 

I pass the beggars all by each day, 

I, of the empty hands ; 
It pains me deep, when they feebly pray; 
I see them haggard and sick and gray, 
And lame, and drunken forsooth; 
And I ask myself the truth: 
If you were a duke and had the sway 

Of so many beautiful lands, 
Would you break them up and give them away, 

You of the laden hands? 

I paused, then I quickly did answer me, 
I, of the empty hands: 

yes, I would give of it cheerfully. 

Of hunger and cold they should all be free, 
For who has a heritage 
That is his beyond his wage? 
'Tis only a little would do for me, 

I need not many lands; 

And much is the source of frivolity. 

Better relieve my hands. 

And what would I want of a coronet, 

I who have busy hands? 
None bend to me nor have ever bent yet ; 

1 would hold out hands for their swift up-get. 
True rank but implies 

"What you are, to the Avise; 
The savages guage it by spangles and jet, 

Decking their necks and hands, — 
So do the civilized savages yet, 

They who boast of their lands ; 

The civilized savage whose armament 

Would buy for the poor their lands ; 

32 



To prepare for murder the gold is spent 
That would send the poor with a glad intent 
To lands that are rich and new, 
To squalor and crime adieu. 
Oh, with what a glory would wealth be blent. 

If all of the poor had lands, 
And plenty were kept, though the most were lent 
Out of the greedy hands ! 



33 



THE BIRTHRIGHT 

I passed by a bevy of sweet little girls, 

As rosy as peaches they were, 
With dimples and ringlets of silken soft curls, 
And playful as kittens that purr. 
what a happiness, 
They are so glad ! 
Would that they never should 
Ever be sad, 
But feast upon joy evermore! 

But sad was another, so sickly and pale. 

No darling, for strangers were all, 
So cold in her tatters, so starved and so frail, 
No nest for a nestling so small. 
Hard is the world for her, 
Cold from the start, 
Stunting her utterly, 
Chilling her heart, 
And old in her playtime is she. 

A curse to such parenthood, curse to a race 

Who live for their freedom alone, 
Who give to the passions the principal place, 
And freedom from duty condone. 
Curse to a pleasure whose 
! Dregs is the pain, 

Others must bear, and be 
Tinct with a stain; 
The birthright of children they sell. 

Aye, pottage it is for which children must pay. 
The losers, unasked, when it's paid; 

'Tis forced from the innocent, bartered away, 
The owner, unknowing, betrayed, 
Born to a fate which so 

- 34 



Blinding' controls. 
Man has no right in the 
Barter of souls, 
Save damning his own, if he choose. 

And what is this birthright belongs to the child? 

'Tis health unimpaired and complete ; 
The much decried home which shall be undefiled, 
And full of a love that is sweet; 
Training the highest shall 
Fit him to live, 
Given by parents who 
Lovingly give, — 
'Tis sum of all crimes to steal this. 

shame to the sophists, whom time will refute, 

Who, since they have bitten in rot, 
Would wrench the sweet apple tree up by the 
root, 
And all that is good they would blot ; 
Sham are they utterly; 
White is still white ; 
Black shall be black for aye ; 
Waxes the light 
From dawn ; and good forever is good. 



35 



TITLES AND HEADS 

Said a page to his lord who was writing one day 
With a hobble and jerk at a miserable lay: 
' ' My lord, my own head is Apollo 's round head, 
With sweets for the gods it ought to be fed. 
But yours is as flat as a board, ' ' he said, 
"0 let me compose your lay!" 

And the lord looked up with a watery eye, 

With half a rebuke and part of a sigh, 

When a twinkle he caught from the would-be 

bard. 
Who would shake off the mask and the slave 

disregard, — 
"I admit to your sauciness, it is quite hard. 
Just try it yourself for today. ' ' 

So down sat the page, and he wrote, and he 

wrote, 
And he dazzled the lord for the words seemed 

to float, 
'Twas music, as floats on a moon-lighted sea 
Where Summer is always and storm may not be ; 
The lord was so staggered he scarcely could 

see: 

"0 that is enough for today!" 

And, later, the duchesses crowded around. 
As the lord read the poem of wonderful sound. 
They made him a hero, he sailed in the air, 
And all said no poet with him could compare, 
how did he manage to make it so fair ! 
And they fondled him all of the day. 

But the page in the kitchen was dancing with 
glee: 

36 



"He'll not get another, — ^no, never, from me. 
He would drop, should I tell, with a thud, and 

be down; 
And all the great ladies who make his renown 
"Would turn from him quickly with sneer or a 

frown ; 

I have him in thrall from today. ' ' 



37 



OLD KATE 

"And so old Kate is dead, old Kate!" 
Sneered Julia, as she uttered "old," 
' ' Old Kate ! with all her golden hair ; 
She was so young! Yet not too late 
(Just take a look!) the secret's told. 

"It was a wig! — I told you so — 
I stood beside her till she died; 
She's not so comely," (pointing there, 
You see the door), "Go in and know 
To life, but not to death, she lied." 

I stepped within the charnel room. 
One window tried to face the West, 
But never ray of sunlight shone, 
For dingy walls made half the gloom. 
And smoke and dirt and fog the rest. 

Below, the freight yard, grimy black. 
With puff, chugg-chugg, the whole day long, 
And all the night the creaking groan 
Of cars and engines on the track, 
A constant moving, tireless throng. 

Poor Kate, for many weary years, 

Had climbed the long and half-lit stairs, 

And laid her tired body down 

Upon her bed with many fears 

For days to come, and faltering prayers; 

And visions of some happy time 
In flowery fields and sunlit lanes, 
Far out of any thought of town. 
In some remote and Summer clime. 
With joy and love for cares and pains. 

38 



The garden of her soul had kept 
All wrinkles from her placid face, 
Though youth she never had, nor play, 
Nor any rest, save when she slept 
Despite the cold and noisy place. 

Yes, she was vain, but 'twas for love 
Of something good to come, though late, 
She cheated Time with gold for gray. 
Nor ever was she dreaming of 
The cause of Julia's growing hate. 

But stealthy Death was at the door, 
And took poor Kate before the blight 
Of hopes for earthly paradise. 
But Julia wished to take still more, 
And waited for the fading light. 

She waited there with evil glee. 

She flung the wig upon the floor. 

That all who came might see and know; 

And then she hid quite silently, 

And listened for the opening door. 

But Alice entered, timid girl, 

"Whom Kate had helped, a friendless child, 

"Who pitied much to find her so. 

Replaced the wig with sunny curl, 

And bent upon her, weeping wild. 

Then Julia came with subtle smile. 
"0 don't I beg; I pray you, spare," 
Said Alice, catching Julia 's arm ; 
She begged that I would guard the while, 
And tip-toed out and down the stair. 

39 



I waited ; then she came with flowers 
To put in Katey's hands and hair, 
Still looking round for fear of harm 
To her she loved, and watched the hours 
In that lone room so cold and bare. 

Then in the dawn came one so dear, 
Who never had his love betrayed: 
"What, dead?" he said, "it cannot be!" 
I led him, helpless, to the bier; 
He wept and wept, his body swayed. 

She looked so young, so very fair ! 
Then Alice came and took his hand. 
But could not speak her sympathy ; 
For her no irony was there. 
But simple creed to understand. 

We buried her not far away; 
And how she got it no one knows, 
But Julia brought a lock of hair 
And laid it in his hand that day : 
'Twas gold, but fear within me rose. 

He bent and kissed the hand that gave, 
But not a word she said the while ; 
She turned and left him standing there 
Beside the rounding, new-made grave. 
But as she turned, I knew her smile. 



40 



UNFULFILMENT 

"I should like to see the silver sea," 

Said a little waif on the street, 

"And the great big ships that they're telling me 

Do make the sailors' fleet; 

I should like the fields and the honey-bee, 

And the flowers that are so sweet ; 

Oh, how I should like to pick from the tree 

The fruits that I'd like to eat!" 

* >i< :4j ^ >t; ^ 

But a cheerless spot 

In the pauper's lot 
By a dusty and noisy street, 
Just such as he daily knew, 
Holds his aged hands and feet 
That never strayed where the flowers grew 
Nor plucked the fruits that were sweet. 
Does it hold his dream-lands too ? 



41 



SLEEP 

Sleeping far are the shadowy seas and moun- 
tains — 
Slumber sweet, for the winds lie still, 
Still, so still, not a leaf to a leaf may whisper ; 
Darkness sifts over vale and hill. 
Bees are hived, and the birds have folded their 
pinions, 
Songless they, while the earth is chill. 
Lambs lie curled that frisked in the daisied 
meadows. 
Stopped is the whir of the water mill. 
Petals closed as hands that are pressed for a 
blessing. 
Flowers sleep while the dews distil; 
Cradled are babes that played in the fragrant 
gardens, 
Prattle hushed that the day did fill. 
Farmers' carts and the sweeping swish of the 
sickle. 
Silent they, at the sleep-god 's will. 
Hushed, — like a room where the dead lie sleep- 
ing. 
Night steps softly, and all is still. 



42 



MIDNIGHT 

The moon is set, and the Pleiades ; 

Keep still my heart and sleep ! 
No sound, no hint of a breath of breeze 

Does o'er my forehead creep. 

To sleep fall all when the darkness bids, 

But I still lie awake. 
Come, drowsy one, come and press my lids, 

My busy thoughts, come, take ! 

'Tis midnight now and the owl is still 
That perched against the moon. 

hark, list, to what seems to fill 
The night with solemn tune ! 

The bells, the knell, 'tis the abbey chime! 

Ah, they within the crypt 
Once heard that mark of the flight of time, 

From whom all time has slipt ! 



43 



AFTER 

After naked Winter, 

Leaves and blushing blooms ; 
After tossing voyage, 

Sweet the harbour looms ; 

After cloud and tempest, 
Crimson glows the sky; 

After night and darkness, 
Morning hovers nigh; 

After work and turmoil, 
Comes refreshing sleep ; 

After toil the sowers 
Golden harvests reap; 

After pain and sorrow, 
Comes a day of peace ; 

After let and hindrance. 
Comes a sweet release ; 

After hate and discord. 
Brothers clasp the hand; 

After distant travel, 
Home, the happy land ; 

After death what cometh? 

After death, aye, what 1 
If I've done my utmost. 

Then it matters not. 



44 



REST, OR QUEST? 

O balmy breeze 

On placid seas, 

So calm at last 

When storms are past! 

We drift afar 

Where gates ajar 

Invite to pass 

O'er bays of glass 

To golden sands 

In sunny lands. 

To rest for aye at ease. 

A sweet reward for weary task — 

To rest in peace 

In sweet release. 

Aye, may we rest 1 I ask. 

For some say rest 

With kindly ruth, 

And some say quest 

With hope of youth; 

But who of all can speak the truth ? 



45 



BABY SONG 

Go to sleep, my darling, 
Go to sleep, my dear ; 
Little seraphs guard thee 
With attentive ear. 

Folded are their pinions 
For the dewy night. 
Waiting but to spread them, 
Should a dream affright. 

Closed your little eye-lids, 
So are daisies white, 
Saving sweetest sparkles 
For the morning light. 

Little mouth is quiet, 
Prattled all the day, 
With a bubbling fancy, 
All your world a play, 

Dolly is alive, dear, 
Hug her very tight ; 
So are all the ark, dear, 
You are very right ; 

For the poet's fancy 
Is your own, my dear; 
Solid world is fiction. 
Ours but veneer. 

Chubby little arm, dear, 
Still to hold her fain, 
Dimpled as the water 
With a drop of rain. 

46 



Sweeter still than Cupid, 
All to you incline ; 
All your world is docile, 
Tamer infantine. 

Never prince nor princess 
Had so wide a sway ; 
Nor such jewelled pleasures 
As bestrew your way. 

You have faith unbounded, 
You have none to fear, 
'Tis the Heaven's kingdom, 
Christ desired here. 

Could I travel backward 
Through each closed door. 
Picking only sweetness 
From the days of yore, 

Though I piled them high, dear, 
Luscious, fragrant, too. 
They would lack the sweetness 
That belongs to you. 

For I could not see them 
With your happy view. 
To the wider vision 
Comes the sorrow, too. 



47 



SPRING SONG 

The sap is flowing, 
The buds are showing, 
And Spring is on the way ; 
The cold is going. 
The breezes blowing 
Are soft to earth today. 

glad is earth today, my dear, 
For Spring is nearly here ; 
We'll go a-straying 

Where lambs are playing, — 
Why should we not be gay'? 

The sun is glowing. 

The cocks are crowing. 

The robin's come to stay; 

And Spring tip-toeing 

Is sweetly throwing, 

Each side her on the way, 

The flowers from her arms, my dear, 

1 see her tripping near ; 
There 's no delaying, 
'Tis time for playing, 
Come ! meet her on the way. 



48 



SESAME 

The happy earth is sweet with Spring, 
Her warm heart beating true, 

All j'-ellow-green and blossoming, 

In morning sun a- glittering, 
And fresh and cool with dew. 

I scent the lilacs once again. 

They waft me far away. 
To pleasant visions linked with pain, 
That what I loved could not remain, 

Of my dear yesterday. 

fragrance rare, and sweeter far, 

Your perfume brings to me. 
From gardens never frost may mar. 
Of which you but the semblance are — 
A passing image, — Sesame ! 



49 



MY MOTHER 

" 'Tis rest," they said, "sweet rest. 
She lies in Earth's motherly arms, 
As free as a babe from alarms. 
So still on that fostering breast." 

Then over her dear, dear head 
The lilies they lovingly strewed, 
And their eyes with tears were dewed 
As they bent o'er her flowery bed. 

" 'Tis a sweet, sweet rest," they said, 

But bitter it was to me, 

That sweetness should cease to be : 

They were words, mere words, for the dead. 

Dead ! — my heart was stone, 
And no more came tears to my eyes, 
Than springs in a desert arise 
All burnt in the torrid zone. 

"We were sure that her love was proved," 
I felt was their secret thought, 
"She should wither with grief o 'er- wrought, 
But she stands as one unmoved." 

to force the tears ! I thought. 
As I covered my face from view. 
Lest a shallow mind construe 
Some slight to her memory sought. 

O the years, the long drawn years, 
Of that crushing, lingering pain. 
Till the tears would come again, 
The long-lost river of tears ! 

50 



Not the surface tears, but the deep, 
Not the sob for a transient woe, 
Which may come today and go. 
But the fathomless tears to weep. 

Could they rise and be wrung from my soul? 

If I reached for hope at all, 

I struck at a prison wall, 

And the damp through my being stole. 

The long years passed, and I stood 
By one they would bear away 
To another bed of clay, 
And a mother she was, and good. 

When I saw her white hand there, 
Blue veined it was and so thin, 
With a drawn, transparent skin, — 
'Twas so like, — and the snowy hair! 

Uprose the flood from within, 
I wept at the heart's heart-core, 
O'erflowed as a low-laid shore 
When the full flood tide comes in. 



51 



TO MY MOTHER 

Still I travel the world's weary stages, 

Though aching and dusty my feet, 

And the faith of my first pilgrimages 

Is lost with the hopes that were sweet ; 

And the aureoled saints of the morning, 

When the dawn-mist melts into day, 

No longer my temple adorning. 

Are paper and paint and clay. 

But the light of your face still is luring, 

My saint that is saint alway. 

Your love, that forever enduring, 

Surviveth the worm and clay. 

My halting hope re-assuring 

With smiles so sweet to my soul, 

My lagging faith re-ensuring, 

And turns my prow for the goal, — 

A goal that is lifting and shifting 

Like light on a distant shore. 

Your voice still speaks when I'm drifting 

And urges me on evermore. 



52 



WHAT OF THINE EYE 

what of thine eye 

With the blue of the sky, 

And thy cheek of a delicate rose? 

Will the blue mount high 

To its place in the sky 

When thy lily-white eyelids close? 

And the pink of the rose 

To a clod decompose, 

And then garland a Summer glade, 

Or might float on a pool, 

When the morning is cool 

And the East is of peach bloom made? 

And thy yellow bright hair 

Be a part of the glare 

When the gates of the West are ajar, 

Or diaphanous flare 

Of a comet's hair 

Whose tresses are caught with a star? 

one may find all, 

They will come at the call. 

They are beautiful bits of thee, 

When they lay the pall, 

To the grave a thrall, 

And thou art an absentee. 

That the violet bloom 

On the dust of the tomb 

Which in aeons may spring from thee, 

Is a thought of gloom, — 

'Tis a scanty room 

For the something that mounted free. 

53 



Out of the hiving swarm 

Of laden impressions warm, 

There arises the transient "thee," 

Or the whirl of a storm 

That shook into form 

An eddy of leaves but to be 

In the wake of the gale, 

Or the pelt of the hail. 

Reduced to the level at last; 

And never to sail, 

Nor a wind e'er avail 

Though it swept o 'er the earth in a blast. 

'Tis a note here and there, 

Afloat on the air, 

That was caught in a tune of thee ; 

'Tis a melody rare. 

Nor may any compare 

In the variant harmony. 

'Twas a chord that came 

From a soul of flame, 

A wind that swept over thy strings. 

That is gone without name, 

"With no match for the same, 

Though all the bright universe sings. 

There is none like thee, 

Nor shall ever be : 

Thou hast come as Excalibur. 

Like the rose on the tree 

Any rose may be, 

But thou shalt never recur. 

'Tis a transient face 
And a fleeting grace, 

54 



Like the haze on a distant hill; 

'Tis a moment's space 

In the shifting race, 

That dwindles each way to nil. 

On a point are we, 

In infinity. 

Do we drop apart for aye? 

And my love for thee. 

And thy love for me, 

Can it bind us beyond the day? 

And what is the need 
For the bud and the seed, — 
Is it earth and air of to-day? 
Should they fail to feed, 
'Twould the fruit impede, 
And all of it shrivels away. 

Is fruition all; 

Do the parents fall 

To the earth, as withered leaves? 

Is there no recall 

From the blinding pall? 

Are we straw in the garner's sheaves! 

'Tis a sadder thing 

Than all pain may bring, 

'Tis the acme of human woe, 

That our loves but spring 

For a banishing, — 

And the whither, ah ! who may know \ 

But then answered she, 

" 'Tis thy simile 

That leads thee to leaves and clay. 



55 



For the makers be 

Not the destiny 

That is bound by the night and day. 

' ' Not for seed are we ; 

For our entity 

The seeding 's the mortal part; 

Immortality 

Is the gift, which we 

May bestow, of the mind and heart. 

"And no blight nor ill. 

Save it be our will. 

Can quench its eternal bloom; 

And no frost can chill. 

Nor the Winter kill, 

For its roots are not in the tomb. 

" 'Twill renew for aye, 

Though we pass away; 

What we make — is it more than we? 

That shall not decay 

Which did life convey 

With the bloom of eternity. 

"There's a hope for me. 

As a rhapsody 

Whose notes I have partly heard, — 

To the melody 

They may be the key, 

Though I know not a single word." 



56 



THE CATHEDRAL 

Within a little town there lies 

An ancient Gothic pile; 
Its noble spire, Babel-wise, 
Is reaching still to touch the skies, 

While past the ages file. 

The architect with dizzy eyes. 

With vision full of gleams. 
By balanced thrust, to neutralize, 
Has made the heavy stone to rise 

In gossamer of dreams. 

The walls inert were spun to thread 

By inspiration of his plan ; 
The lofty vault was poised o 'er head 
Where pointed arches upward led 

To reach an airy span. 

Relentless rock, the wave defies, 
Was bended into melting curve, 

And gravity its name belies, 

Though pulled to earth was made to rise, 
The master mind to serve. 

The muUioned windows, jewelled, shine 

In sapphire blue and ruby red; 
Aslant the aisles the rays incline. 
Of sunbeams turned to limpid wine, 
A tinted twilight over-spread. 

The march of piers adown the aisle, 

Though massive, slender to the eye, 
For weight to height they reconcile, 
And from the ground the soul beguile 
To vaults that aim the sky. 

57 



A spark enkindles lifeless stone 
Which bursts in lavish bloom, 
With flora, fauna, not alone, 
But saints in niches to enthrone, 
Arisen from the tomb. 

And griffins, monsters, imps as well, 

When fancy had her play. 
And every phase of life compel 
To fall within the master's spell, 

His purpose to obey. 

No hackneyed sickness dwarfed his mind, 

In stupid faith decayed ; 
Unsatisfied, he strove to find 
Some way the infinite to bind 

In marble, mystic made. 

The glowing glass the blower bends 

In shape unto his will; 
In growing cold the fever spends; 
In other forms he then intends 

To shape new beauty still. 

But he, the builder, could not square 

With years his primal plan : 
Beyond all compass did he dare 
To build more beautiful and fair 

Than time allows to man. 

Here some o'erwhelmed aspire with awe 
Who with the master-mind immerse, 

Beholding beauties without flaw, 

Assembled unto magic law, 
As is the universe. 

58 



Not so the sleepy celebrant : 

His hopes are all attained; 
His heaven sure, he reads the chant, 
And they are safe who hold his cant, 

Because his god is chained. 

By bells and beads his prayers are made ; 

His soul is satisfied; 
He dwells in damp, sepulchral shade, 
And shadows on his soul are laid 

From light he has denied. 

The swinging censer fills the air 

With heavy mist of myrrh, 
With fragrant gums and spices rare. 
And sculptured saints, who glory wear. 

Are lost amid the blur. 

The organ thunders rise and fall, 

Resound to airy vaults; 
The choirs sing antiphonal, 
The richly robed processional 

Before the altar halts. 

Embossed with gold and jewels rare, 

The priest in scarlet fine, 
Lifts up the host with muttered prayer, 
And calls on Christ to enter there 

The golden chaliced wine. 

(The Carpenter of simple creed 
Who supped with fishermen, 
Himself from ceremony freed, 
His ethics drawn from human need, 
And not beyond their ken !) 

59 



The congregation, stunted, sit. 

Nor ever raise their eyes; 
For saints alone are candles lit; 
For men a pleasing counterfeit 

Of buying Paradise. 

Unheard the words of muttered lore, 

Unseen where jewels deck, 
To some poor sitter at the door — 
So vast the nave, — the pillars soar — 
The priest a scarlet speck. 



60 



THE MAGIC EING 

To all the secrets earth would keep, 

Brave men are finding key; 
They break her laws the air to sweep, 
And into holies fearless peep 
Where men have bent the knee. 

And all who spurn the magic ring 

Inert are they as stone, 
For knowledge gives to soul the wing 
To pass the bars which limit bring 

To wishes, weak alone. 

And what the age prefigureth 

The seers strive to see, — 
To rein the forces, hamper death. 
And all the seekers holding breath 

At glimpse of what shall be. 



61 



MISFITS 

If we had never made the creeds 

That now misfit the growing needs, 

If gowns, before, were never planned, 

Though pigmy to our large demand, 

We might be that from which we sprung 

And find ourselves prehensile hung 

Within the forest green; 

With scent of nostril over-keen, 

And finger fashioned with the claw, 

With fangs to bite a diet raw. 

And manners of the jungle law, 

With no decisive mark of mind 

Between ourselves and other kind. 

O it is making garb too small 

That we have learned to make at all ! 

The pattern helped to make anew. 

And ever making nearer true. 

Discarding, and retaining, too, 

Unto a larger realm we grew, 

For in that far essay to think 

We made the gap of ' ' missing link. ' ' 



62 



PARAPHRASED FROM VICTOR HUGO 

Alone with the waves and sky am I, 
By a sailless sea and a cloudless sky. 
Still farther I peer than worlds real; 
With wood and mountain I seem to feel 
The question they ask the wave and sky. 
Threading the ether, stars of gold, 
Voicing harmonies manifold, 
Making the infinite their lyre, 
Say, as they swing their lamps of fire, 
"It is the Lord, the Lord God." 



63 



THE ENTOMOLOGIST 

In stilly night, when candles most were out, 
O'er treasures garnered from his travels far, 
An insect-lover bent his reverent head 
And glanced his searching eye around about 
The rows of beetles, each a shining star. 
Each one he fondly handled, green or red, 
Or other hue, with bright metalic sheen. 
The lamp-light fell upon his noble face. 
Framed in the scattered locks of shaggy hair. 
It warmed the tan, revealed the sweet, serene, 
And childlike soul which lent a gentle grace 
To rugged features, lines of pain and care 
And overwork. A tender curve of joy 
Caressed the corners of his straight-set mouth. 
His eye would sparkle as he talked to each 
Hard-won and many-coloured gleaming toy. 
The product of his journeys North and South, 
Of many places near, or hard to reach : 
"And you, my tiger-beetle," thus he said, 
"You green and bronze and yellow spotted one, 
I caught upon the dusty road; so still 
You stood, you rascal; then away you sped 
Like lightning, but you faced about (for fun?) 
Before alighting. Yet it was my will 
That I should get you, whatsoe'er you do. 
And you, my shining black, from 'neath a stone 
Did scamper (like myself at fire alarm). 
And you, my beauty, gold and violet-blue, 
With hints of green and copper, bright you 

shone 
Upon that tree, though bent on doing harm. 
And you, my warrior, blue and orange hue. 
You, whom they call the brave bombardier. 
Who fired your pop-gun in my very face ; 

64 



Your smoke and sound might well avail 
For lesser foes, — but not that fatal day. 
(Before the step of Time we too give place; 
Our false alarm and smoke will sadly fail 
"When he comes on his depredating way.) 
And you, my devil's coach horse, dull and black, 
With elevated head and tail, with jaw 
Distended for a snap at passers-by, 
1 took you 'spite the chip upon your back. 
(Just so, some folk will always find a flaw, 
They bristle up at all the world awry.) 
And here's my tumble bug, so like to me. 
Who roll my troubles into such a heap, 
I rarely reach the top in all the wide 
Circumference, — a funny sight to see. 
If God should turn and slyly take a peep. 
And you, my ladybird, so neatly pied. 
Your scarlet coat ; I do admire your taste. 
Amid the dusky gleams, a stagnant pool 
With fragrant ferns and rushes on its shore, 
A child, I watched my whirligig which traced 
His waving curves with all his jolly school 
Of social followers, who swim, and more, 
Who fly, have eyes to see above, below, 
As either element demands, (as I 
Would see the world and yet the spirit too.) 
And you, my firefly, who flash and go. 
So like the thoughts which might reveal the sky 
Of empyreans I have longed to view. 
And you, my moulten iridescent one, 
My golden green, with many a changing hue, 
WTiose fine emotions often make you glow 
Like melted rainbows in the dripping sun, — 
Alas! they fade away at death, 'tis true. 
(Shall all my treasured colours perish so? 
Or form is naught and they alone are real, 

65 



And I am they, my own of all that's here, 
And mine to take when thither I shall go? 
These bugs I can bequeath ; can I reveal 
The colours of my soul, both rare and dear? 
Lo ! in my book are all your forms arranged, 
Your evolutions and your habits all. 
Could I impart some glow of what you mean, 
Some flush of life, so that the whole were 

changed 
To living drama, all the scenes recall — 
A bit of sky, of country road, or forest green — 
So like to ours the world of insects grows ! 
Would I could leave the flash that here and 

there 
Reveals a larger truth, amid the night 
Of ignorance, and though I take the rose, 
Could leave within the page a fragrance rare !) " 



66 



THE NECTAR OF LIFE 

give me the rich red wine ! 

1 thirst for the purple juice, 
For the nectar of life divine, — 
For gold I have scarce a use. 

For gold, should I lay it away, 
Is gold to the end of time, 
But richer grows wine each day, 
As rich as the tropic clime. 

It clears like to stained glass. 
And glows as the sunset glows. 
For the lights that through it pass 
Are tinct to the deepest rose. 

All through me it burns and thrills, 
And dancing there comes a throng 
Of words into tunes and trills — 
Shall I leave the gold, or a song? 



67 



A LITTLE CHILD SAT ON MY KNEE 

A little child sat on my knee, 

With curly hair of sunny hue, 

With cheeks as pink as peach-blown tree, 

And eyes forget-me-nots of blue. 

I held my watch close to her ear, 
That she might note the steady click, 
All wonder-wrapt the sound to hear, 
She said to me, "What makes it tick?" 

"My dear," I said, "I cannot tell; 
You are too young to understand; 
When you are older, very well 
I can explain by speech and hand," 

So, too, we bend to earth the ear. 
To catch the pulse-beat of all time, 
And ask the why, with half a fear. 
For answers that are too sublime. 

We are too young ; when aeons ring 
Their circles through our changing zone, 
The very outermost may bring 
Reply with no uncertain tone. 



68 



TO THE ROOK 

The lofty elm is your eyrie, 
On top of the topmost bough ; 
What makes your note ever cheery ;, 
Your clan and you never weary 
With your caw, caw, caw? 

You dip and swing with the breezes, 
Against the blue of the sky ; 
You have no guile nor diseases; 
And storm or hail only pleases, 
While you caw, caw, caw. 

Your little ones are so cosy. 
And rocked so safe in the air ; 
Beneath your mate they are dozy, 
When all the West is so rosy. 
And you caw, caw, caw. 

Your work leaves you never jaded, 
Though digging grubs all the day; 
You raise a cloud if invaded. 
And greedy man is upbraided 
With your caw, caw, caw. 

The earth is your freehold ever, 
Not parcelled out as to man; 
You all make equal endeavour; 
Your friendly league will not sever 
At a caw, caw, caw. 

A jolly time is your season. 
You take the world as it is; 
No cause frets you, nor a reason ; 
You never fear there is treason 
In your caw, caw, caw. 

69 



TO A ROMAN LATCH-KEY 

A rusty bit of metal now, 

Fit for the curio. 

And yet I can imagine how 

You turned the latch for friend, 

Or guarded from the foe. 

Some villa at the city's end 

Where togaed Romans used to wend, 

And sandaled matron entertained. 

Where charmed guest had oft remained 

For feast or pleasant game. 

Some gracious lady in her flowing gown 

With beauty and a high renown, — 

And now without a name, 

Nor villa for the key, 

Nor town, nor avenue. 

A void reality. 

But sadly true ! 

And our philosophies. 

Of which we were so sure, 

Our mighty creeds for which we held the keys, 

And which were built so well 

We knew they must endure, 

Of that we could foretell ! 

We have the rusty keys 

Writ down in dusty books 

On shelves in shady nooks 

AVhich every age in passing sees. 

We keep them there 

And prize them, too. 

For what they once were said to do. 

But where the well-built houses, where ! 



70 



AFFINITY 

Somewhere, my love, forevermore, 

Far, far, within my dreams, 
Beyond the farthest misty shore. 
All Gothic-carved in legend lore, 

My fairy palace faintly gleams. 

Aglow, in splendour, dazzling white, 

Its towers rise above the mist, 
And break in curves of flashing light. 
Where ripples run in gay delight 
Across a lake of amethyst. 

About it all the woods are sweet 
With hyacinths of purple hue, 
A waving carpet for the feet 
Which never down their petals beat, 
But are as light as morning dew. 

A yellow glow is on the glade, 

Like Summer evening after rain; 
And through the dark-green velvet shade 
Are strips of sunshine softly laid 
In bands as gold as ripened grain. 

Through rosy meadows, daisy-pied, 

Like silver threads the rivers run, 
Or sun-lit through the clearings glide. 
Where daffodils spread far and wide 
A cloth of gold to match the sun. 

As dazzling showers cool the air. 
Though Summer sun is shining still, 

The meadow larks spring everywhere 

To warble music, liquid, rare, 

And all the meads with rapture fill. 



A misty blue, the hills and dells ; 

The mountain peaks are virgin snow; 
As Sabbath morn the valley dwells, — 
The hush, before cathedral bells 

Ring out the chimes to all below. 

As fresh as after rain the breeze. 

Or on the violets the dew. 
On wafted fragrance float the bees 
To sip the sweets upon the leas 

From bending blooms of every hue. 

Assembled in my palace halls 
My guests are gossamer as air ; 

In painted story are the walls; 

From pointed window slanting falls 
Each rainbow tint upon their hair. 

As breezes soft on southern seas 

Becalm the v/aves to melody, 
As through the pines the zephyr breathes, 
Or gentle showers on the leaves. 

Their voices Avhisper poesy. 

A hint, — and I am wafted there, 

Past sun and moon and distant star ; 
A picture, music, fragrance rare, 
A word, a thrill, and then I fare 
To where my dream-possessions are. 

A sweet mirage, a glimpse sublime, 

I catch within your beaming eyes, 
Of some enchanted lovely clime, 
Beyond the bounds of space and time, 
Beyond my farthest faint surmise. 

72 



I feel your heart beat when I fold 
Your body to my warm embrace, 
Your spirit still escapes my hold 
And slips beyond me free and bold 
To some forbidden, happy place. 

Sometimes I try to travel there — 

You give the hint, I feel the glow, 
When waves are warm and weather fair, 
I feel the spray and scent the air, 
But bars forbid, I cannot go. 

Perchance, when we are body free, — 
The bars removed that lie between 

The visions that we dimly see, — 

We then shall prove affinity. 

That yours and mine are one demesne. 



73 



LOVE'S MAGIC 

O I might sing of rivers, dear, 

That flow into the sea; 
Of winds that softest kisses give 

To flowers on the lea ; 

Of Summer, wedding snn and shade 

To buttercup and violet ; 
Or he that draws the smiling sea 

With crimson blushes ere he set; 

Of hills that wear a bridal veil 

To wed the jewelled field; 
And all the loves of happy birds, 

Their similes to yield. 

But there are double stars, my dear, 

From kiss of fiery suns. 
Which ever round each other spin. 

And far their orbit runs. 

The one a precious sapphire blue, 

The other ruby hued. 
Nor in the circle, magic made, 

May yellow suns intrude 

To turn the red to scarlet flame, 

The blue to jealous green. 
Self-lighted suns, they thread the vast 

And limitless demesne. 

Chromatic is the light and shade 

They mutually bestow ; 
The shade is wrought of violets, 

For light the roses blow. 



74 



And far beyond the thought of time, 
Beyond the thought of space, 

Their loving revolution bounds 
In never ending race. 



75 



TO MY SWEETHEART 

Out of the gate of dreams we speed, 

Hands joined in ecstasy, 
Far through the gleaming paths you lead 

To where we used to be. 

How gay the path with blossoms hemmed ! 

How sweet, as long ago ! 
All rainbow tints with dew-drops gemmed 

The sunlight sets aglow. 

The air's so clear and bracing here. 
Your cheeks are tinged with red ; 
'Tis poetry, enchantment, dear. 
Where'er you turn your head. 

But do not all turn back again 
When they have gone so far? 

In waking, there's a touch of pain 
This sweetness sure to mar. 

For who turns back is sure to find 

It fades a misty past ; 
And those about him all so blind 

To joys that ever last. 

But you and I, ah, you and I! 

Gro on, and on, for aye. 
With heart to heart and spirits high 

As in that yesterday. 

Those distant, dream-blue hills that lie 

'Neath peaks of snowy crest, 
Against a violet arch of sky 

Where sinks the sun to rest ; 

76 



And far beyond through realms of light, 

On — through Eternity, 
All gleaming day, no thought of night, 

Are paths for you and me. 

I look into your loving eyes 
And feel your warm clasp, so ; 

Our hearts are beating, visions rise, 
As hastening on we go. 

I know that death and pain and fret 

Are incidents for us. 
But after them, together yet, 

I'll feel your warm hand, thus. 

Through maze of spheres on airy tread. 
Through worlds we do not know, 

Together still, we shall be led 
Where only love can go. 



77 



IF I COULD CHOOSE 

If I could choose, 
I would not lose 
One moment from thee, 
Sweet, my own, 

And all the days 
Be seeking ways 
To bring thee pleasures 
Still unknown. 

But I must work, 
I cannot shirk 
Because I love thee, 
Sweet, my dear. 

Our love would pale, 
Its charm would fail, 
Unless we earn it 
Very dear. 



78 



I KNOW MY LOVE IS TRUE 

I have such faith in him I love, 
I do not watch him from above, 
As if he were a creeping thing 
With fangs to give my heart a sting; 
I know my love is always true, 
And never fear what he will do. 

I need no bars for my own love, 
So I will not his fetter prove, 
For love belongs to flying things, 
Alas, for me to clip his wings ! 

let him soar and touch the blue ! 
He will come home for nesting, too. 

When dangers threaten, and some one 
Must guard or fight, I know 'tis done. 
When tempters come I know the word, 
Though I were far and had not heard; 

1 am content, and need no clue. 
For well I know what he will do. 

When fads and follies have their sway, 
And some new lordling has his day, 
And prates that all the world is wrong, 
I know my love will answer strong; 
Nor all their silly retinue 
Can block the road he will pursue. 

No other's word for his I take. 
For on his truth my all I stake. 
If any fail to find him true, 
'Tis fault of their 's and not his due ; 
For aye, 'tis I who know him true 
And can predict what he will do, 

79 



He reads my thought in hand and eye, 
And scarcely need we make reply, 
For words are slow and cumbrous things, 
And swifter, thought, than flight of wings. 
And softly swing the windows, too, 
To visions closed to colder view, 

what a home his heart to me ! 
A nestling I could always be ! 
Though others shift, and pay the toll, 

1 know what garden for my soul 

Is still as sweet with honey dew 
As when the tender Spring was new. 

cold and bleak the icy world ! 

O warm the hearth where I am curled ! 

sad is some misgiving heart 

Who from his Eden must depart. 

And passing verdure, halts to rue 
A desert stretching far to view ! 



80 



PENUMBRA 

There is something in the air, 
Though the sun is shining fair, 
I can see it looming there, 
All the whiles. 

Tell me what it is I've done 
That should dim the shining sun, 
That the clouds should overrun 
Sunny smiles? 

Smile, my dear, while it is light. 
O forgive a little slight! 
You might wish, when comes the night, 
You'd forgot. 

Here's for sweetness all the day; 
Give and take it while you may ; 
Plenty sorrow comes our way, — 
Make it not. 



81 



TO MY SWEETHEART 

Will you love me, little sweetheart, 
When the dew is off the grass; 

When the buds and tender leaflets 
Fall and rustle as you pass? 

Will you love me when the snow falls, 
And the air is bleak and cold? 

Will you love me when I totter 
And the lasses call me old? 

When my hair is touched with silver 
And my face is wrinkled too? 

There are many handsome maidens 
That will have a charm for you. 

For the young have winsome faces, 
Catching manners, too, my dear ; 

'Tis mere youth that gives them graces, 
Health that gives the body cheer. 

There 's a thrill and pulse in Springtime, 
Splendid promise, you will say ; 

But not all the buds of April 
Will be blossoming in May. 

And there's many a worm and canker 
From the moths that steal, to-day. 

Into buds and tender blossoms, 
Planting seed for their decay. 

But the Autumn is the test-time. 
When the fruit is ripe to eat, 

When the blush is not deceptive 
And the core is clean and sweet; 

82 



"When the seed is ripe and ready, 
Plump and of the best degree 

That the genus yet has offered 
For the fruitage still to be. 

Only love me for my worth, dear, 
Put me to the test and see ; 

Try me by the tests of Autumn, 
Tests that stand eternity. 



83 



ONLY ONE 

Who are all your dearest sweethearts 
That you sing so much about, 
That you prize beyond all telling, 
And you could not do without? 
Who the loves you call immortal 
With affinities sublime, 
That you trace beyond the portal 
Of the outer door of Time? 
They are one, I answer bravely. 
There is one, and only one. 
For the fates have stoutly woven, 
Warp and woof are we they spun ; 
And should one begin to ravel 
Then alas ! are we undone. 
All the palaces of fancy. 
All the heavens pictured fair, 
Would to me be dust and ashes, 
Bliss were none could he not share. 
Oh the pains in thought of parting 
With no other pains compare ! 
I should much prefer a dungeon, 
Even hell, if he were there. 
Place us in a grave together. 
Heart to heart we still would lie, 
Waking so, or sleeping ever, 
As the aeons pass us by. 
Waking? Comes the fear to sever. 
Oh ! if there 's a kindly Fate, 
We beseech of thee in mercy 
Part us not beyond the gate. 



84 



PROCRASTINATION 

Said Plutus ' namesake : ' ' Now it seemeth meet 
To taste the sweets of life, so long denied ; 
I '11 please my tongue, as one who gathers wide 
Rich, luscious fruit that is delight to eat : 
Soft downy peaches, cherries, grapes replete 
With nectar; melons, apricots — inside, 
Aurora yellow; primrose pears all pied 
With russet, melting, cool; and figs so sweet, 
So ripe you scarce can eat nor let them fall; 
And purple plums that shame the tint of kings. 
O life mellifluous, now is my day ! ' ' 
With smile and stroke of beard, old Time rose 

tall 
Behind him, gave him aches, and pain that 

stings ; 
Laid hand upon his head and left him grey. 



85 



FORGET-ME-NOTS 

Across the hills of early wheat I strolled; 
Not far above their rim the smiling sun 
Grew mellow, for his course was nearly done, 
And shot each blade and leaf of tender fold 
"With yellow lights — ^translucent, greenish gold. 
Beyond, and down, my little path was spun 
To tiny thread; behind, it seemed to run 
To meet the sky. Thus sauntering, behold! 
O wondrous view! "Within a sheltered spot, 
Where sprinkled dandelions seemed to shine 
Like suns amid the grass, a bit of sky — 
As melts above the warm horizon line 
In June — had taken root to beautify 
The earth, in guise of wild forget-me-not. 



86 



CHRISTMAS SONNET 

The world is white and tinkling bells ring gay 
The Christmas time. Fresh hopes, as roses red, 
Bloom in the children's smiles. The banquet's 

spread 
With luscious sweets culled from the buds of 

May. 
1 love the children and am glad their day. 
To me the banquet is but meat and bread, 
Tasteless and stale. I eat and am not fed; 
Nor can I think of Christ, though preachers 

pray. 
But oh ! the vision of the long ago, — 
The wondrous feast, the presents, the surprise ! 
I see their faces through the mist still glow : 
They sit around the table, nor arise 
To end the feast ; I dream, and dream, when lo ! 
I sit with them and dine in Paradise ! 



87 



TO THE MEN WHO PROCLAIMED THE 
REPUBLIC OF PORTUGAL, OCT. 4, 1910 

Hail ! to the valiant messengers of day, 
Who from the hill-top see a streak of red 
And turning swift with eager steps are sped 
To those below on whom the shadows stay. 
Not slaves, but men, will rise and have their say 
When parasites are on the people fed. 
The iron rods, the slaves are wont to dread, 
Are willow wands when really put to bay. 
Like Arctic travellers the tyrants sleep. 
They view the frozen way, compact, secure, 
And full of hope into their bags they creep, 
That on the morrow all the way is sure, 
And know not, snugly wrapt in slumber fast, 
A lead is opening, black, and deep, and vast. 



88 



NO WINDOW TAX 

Why should men walk a mimic, mincing gait 
With that slow army that must keep in file 
With dwarfish leaders down a narrow aisle? 
Trimmed hedges, they, to guard some priest's 

estate 
For swinish feast, or blind episcopate. 
Why should they list to sneering scoffer 's smile, 
Who would their souls from sweetest truth 

beguile, 
And cage them with the iron bars of hate 1 
No window tax nor barred doors for me ! 
For I myself must judge and choose and dare, 
And from my soul 's horizon must I see, 
Which broadens as I climb that Jacob's stair, 
And slowly drops what closed the wider view 
Where good is good forever, old, or new. 



89 



A NOBLE LORD SET SAIL 

A noble lord set sail in castle fine, 

His needless wealth impartial seas to freight; 

His ship excels the purple aureate 

Of Cleopatra's barge. For him the wine 

With Autumn tints, for him on sweets to dine ! 

Yet what is he, and why this costly state ? 

Or in his veins does ichor circulate — 

Olympic breed? — "the people" less divine? 

Why still the myth, when women on the street 
Sing for a crust, and hopeless children hold 
Wan babes at night outside the public's door? 
On pauper-pay men drink for lack of meat. 
What sweet green fields this sadly squandered 

gold 
Would buy — sea-fares and home lands for the 

poor ! 



90 



DISCORDIA 

Some slight imagined wrong to discord led, 
And baby storms obscure the April skies ; 
Their house of blocks all widely scattered lies. 
At angry words she shook with sobs to bed, 
Till winds of sleep caressed her curly head, 
And left the dew on silken fringe of eyes 
And rosy cheek, and soothed the sobs that rise. 
To warm forgetfulness. A frown o'erspread 
His boyish face, his chubby fist held tight, 
Till sleep relaxed. But with the robin's call 
Will kisses come and thrall of loving arms. 
And could we see the cause as childish quite 
That leads to war when men and nations fall. 
The hands would clasp that beat the dread 
alarms. 



91 



FROM MY WINDOW 

The twilight hastens, daylight's glaring fire 
Fades rosy amber, palest olive sheen. 
Beneath a blue-white mist there lies serene 
The shrouded city, save a black 'ning spire. 
A shy new moon, first of the evening choir, 
Peeps through the tree-tops where is dimly seen 
No leaf nor twig, but blurs of dusky green. 
What lies enchanted I would not inquire 
Of city's dirt and detail hard and bare; 
No need. Far rather would I hope I may, 
Amid to-morrow's toil, find time to spare 
Some thought for this perspective, that the day 
Take such dimension as should be its share 
When final twilight fades into the gray. 



92 



THE POET'S LAMP 

Past jars of gold and sea-green malachite 

"Which scented blooms and luscious fruits dis- 
close, 

Still turning not, for they are dust, he goes 

To find the rusty lamp, and makes it bright. 

When lo ! what castles, arched and pillared 
white. 

Sunlit with yellow lights, festooned in rose ! 

What gardens of Hesperides unclose ! 

What hillsides pastoral, what pathways dight 

With flora lead to seas of lazuli, 

To purple peaks, snow-crowned, to fairy dales ! 

What company of regal guests, with flow 

And lilt of thought, like winds that scud the 
sails ! 

A prince indeed! Yet sordid passer-by 

Will smile at faded coat and rank him low. 



93 



TO KEATS 

Long rows of dreary books that stop and dry 
The springs of fancy, till I open thine ! 
Then are my senses gladdened with a line ; 
Like one who, weary of the streets, should spy, 
At dusty turn, between the buildings high, 
A little path that leads him, serpentine. 
Across a hill of buttercups a-shine 
And laughing 'gainst a sky of lazuli. 
Or one o'er lava beds and steep inclines, 
Some barren ridge should scale, and see below, 
All lying white amid the trees and vines, 
Where fragrant orange and magnolia blow, 
A fairy town, and happy hither go 
For cooling fruits and shade and sunset wines. 



94 



TO ROBERT BROWNING 

Exhilarating light — my pay for toil, 
No muddy, tangled ways, unlit with fire; 
From thee a thrill as by electric wire 
Which lights the brain from glow of subtle coil ; 
Transcends, as after rain the dark turmoil 
Of clouds is broken, spilling out the sun, 
Along their edges gleaming borders run, 
The dripping trees are limned in silver foil. 
In fresh-cooled air, the dazzling rays convey 
To leaves and grass their points of burning 

white. 
Thy metaphors reveal and flash the way; 
Thy bracing view is not from mountain height, 
But voyager in air to whose survey 
Lies all the earth in panoramic light. 



95 



TO SHAKESPEARE 

Immortal drama of the changeless age 
Of elemental man ! Still Brutus speaks ; 
Still vain are Lear's weak tears; Cordelia seeks 
Response from alien souls; and Hamlets rage 
With problems yet unsolved. The heritage 
Of time — the hates and loves, the hopes and 

fears — 
Can change in trappings only, with the years ; 
And all the world for aye shall be thy stage. 
And through it all the sweet and matchless 

tone — 
The poet's voice — known by a note let fall! 
Like some dear friend whose precious meaning 

shone 
In cadenced mood, as clear as robin's call; 
And should I hear one word upon the stair. 
Before he touch the latch, I know who's there. 



96 



THE UNREMEMBERED BARDS 

How brown and dusty are the unturned leaves, 
And dust the hearts that did the pens inspire 
With unf oreshortened truth ! An ashen pyre 
From which no wings arise ! Yet one perceives 
A living spark, some mighty bard retrieves 
To light his holocaust, his scented fire; 
Arising thence a lark whose throated lyre 
The singing stars of sweetest song bereaves. 

A tear for those whom ruthless Time repressed ! 
Sure-footed, he, and over each crevasse 
He steps to solid ground, and only they 
Who stepped with him may with the Present 

breast — 
A striding gait. And who are they, alas ! 
Who yet may drop to darkness by the way ? 



97 



WITHIN A MOUNTAIN VALLEY 

Within a mountain valley dwelt secure 
A lad who questioned not, still loving home ; 
His world was bounded by the snowy dome 
Of circling peaks — his narrow faith so sure 
They met the sky — nor any hint nor lure 
Of aught beyond. No budding wish to roam 
Had burst the sweet content: he never clomb 
Above the fields which homely joys insure. 

But one came running swift in streamers 
dressed, 

With flying hair and radiant ecstasy : 

"There is a world beyond! Come, come with 
me!" 

They crossed the hills ; they reached the moun- 
tain crest, — 

When lo ! there lay the world in verity. 

One turn, a tear for home, then on they pressed. 



98 



THE SPIDER 

A wily spider wove his web last night 
From out my window to a bending spray 
Enwreathed in blossoms, pink as dawning day. 
'Twas sure a deep abyss for him that height 
To span, that he might catch my sweet delight 
Of hawthorn flowers, clustered in bouquet, 
To hold his fairy lace, his fine array 
Of handiwork, with one drawn thread so slight. 
A step to earth, but he 's so small, 'twould seem 
A daring feat, a distance dire and grim. 
And me ? When in aspiring mood I dream 
And stretch a thought to some far star so dim, 
Perchance it is as near in God's esteem, — 
Perhaps to me when I shall grow like Him. 



99 



I OPEN DOORS AND DOORS 

1 open doors and doors, and pass on through 
Dark rooms where, stumbling oft, I grope for 

light ; 
Or rooms, the moon makes white, or sunbeams 

bright. 
With drift of perfume on sweet winds that blew 
O 'er blooming meadows freshly cooled with dew, 
And murmurous of birds beyond my sight ; 
Dream passages ; from openings out of view 
Cool winds blow in ; wild, slanting rain at night, 
Frantic with storm, and angry brush of trees 
Against the panes ; or mocking shadows, strange, 
From some too glorious light, wave with the 

breeze. 
Not hurriedly, from room to room for change, 
But loitering, from pictured hints to know 
The open, when from out I pass and go. 



100 



IMMORTALITAS 

I saw her stand witli deep untroubled eyes, 
No mist before them, nor a tear she shed 
For all the loved and unremembered dead. 
A Venus, she, but cold as stars that rise 
O'er Arctic seas, locked white 'neath ebon skies. 
She did not bend, nor even turn her head, 
And icy-keen she cut the words she said, 
Nor cared the pang they gave, nor heard the 
sighs. 

,Came one so young and held his scanty siheaves — 

So pitifully small, — who plead his youth ; 

' ' What have you brought ? ' ' She said no more, 

alas! 
Came crippled hopes, and they who brought but 

leaves. 
Came laden arms with wealth of golden truth,— 
To all she said the same, and bade them pass. 



101 



THE VOYAGER 

So calmly fared he on the water-ways; 

His painted prow he turned to ports he knew, 

In palmy isles whose sands were washed with 

blue; 
And on their shingle beached his ship for days, 
For wines and luscious figs, and heard the lays 
Of bards who sang the things he deemed were 

true; 
And at all altars paid his righteous due ; 
Then voyaged on to other pleasant bays. 
There came a change: "What this wild wind 

that blows 
And bears me out? Who that strange mask 

that steers? 
Will he abide the deck in unknown sea ? 
Is he a god ? For when he moves there glows 
A splendour, gilding waves. I have my fears. 
Is he still I ? Dare I to call him me ? " 



102 



WOULD I RETURN? 

How sweet, how fond, how far, that azure bay, 
Its circling shores all there within my sight ! 
I'rom port to port I sailed with fresh delight, 
Nor had a fear when all the time was day. 
And all the months were years of merry May, 
When Flora reigned, rose-wreathed, who sprin- 
kled white 
The shores with star anemones, and bright 
Were river margins banked with bloom, and gay 
And honey sweet were field and wood and glen. 
How sweet and undisturbed my world to me ! 
Yet to pass out the strait, how I did yearn! 
I passed; and met the storm and night, and 

then — 
The vision glimmered, slipt, and all was sea, 
And sea. Would I return? I ask. Return? 



103 



THE 0VER-PLUf5 

Does he but deal in names (whose narrow 

thought 
He vouches for the truth) who says that we 
Are cells and atoms, strung so cunningly 
To some electric coil, too subtly wrought 
For any tool that Science yet has brought, — 
Yet still might bring in ages yet to be? 
Though granting much, there yet remains for 

me 
The over-plus, not common, he makes naught. 
What is that looker-on to whom arise 
The moons of memory and all to view 
Stand out : the peaks and hills and boundless 

skies. 
The purple sea, the isles of yesterday ; 
Who stands aloof and judges, makes anew. 
Commands the under-selves and points the way ? 



104 



TWILIGHT 

The purple browns of evening blur the green; 
No breeze nor breath ; and all the river lies 
In quietude of death ; with close shut eyes 
The painted flora swoon in sleep serene, 
Nor nod their heads ; and farther out between 
The feathered shade and shore, the golden skies 
Lie on the stream in dreams of Paradise. 
The trees dip deep into the glassy sheen ; 
'Mid shade, to right, the gleams are lost in 

glooms ; 
But on beyond there turns to thread the glade 
A cord of light ; and farther still, up-looms, 
Between the mist-hung trees, a vista laid 
In lines of white as blended daisy blooms, — 
There fairies dance and flowers never fade. 



105 



ON THE DEATH OF DEAR FEIENDS 

Another, and another, still they pass, 
Like falling leaves, till all the tree is bare; 
The birds that sang are mating otherwhere 
On branches green as early Summer grass 
For sweet young hopes, — and yet, for them, 

alas! 
Shall come the Winter, sear beyond repair, 
Yea, sear, although they say the sky is fair 
Through twisted warp and gnarl of Time's 

harass. 
Ah, sad ! that on Death's narrow unlit stairs, 
No hand can help, we cannot go in pairs ; 
But at the foot, or top (to say, who dares?) 
We sleep together, or unfolds the day 
When veils are lifted, then, ah ! then, we may — 
But hush, press on, brush tears and prayers 

away! 



106 



THE QUEST 

I met two running in a strange wild race: 
A phantom was the foremost, and so fair, 
On sunbeams treading ; gold was all her hair. 
And, like the dead in dreams, so faint her face 
As swift as wind she swept an airy pace. 
Her misty robes like smoke upon the air. 
I stopped her follower, whose charmed stare 
Saw naught but her, and held him for a space : 
"0 why, and whither?" He then. Sibylline: 
"She never turns, but to the sun is faced." 
"But look behind; see, all the April green 
Is brown; and crumbling stone and barren 

waste ! ' ' 
"Yea, in thy shadow, so." "With frantic mien 
He broke from me, and ran with bending haste. 



107 



A HAUNTING VISION 

A haunting vision all the day withdrew 
To shadowland, as falls but transiently, 
Through rifted cloud a splendour on the sea ; 
Or frescoes faint and broken to the view, 
Whose bits of wind-blown robes and gold and 

blue 
Suggest the sky and aureoles, though flee 
Beyond pursuit the theme and rhapsody; 
Or passing as the mirrored sun in dew ; 
Or stars that twinkle in the tossing deep 
Are lost in cloud eclipse; remembered song 
That wanes to head a-tilt for faintest note. 
When lo ! it comes to some wrapt mood I keep, 
As chimes that seem to wait, then far along 
The waving fields full sweet and clear they float. 



108 



THE LILT 

As one who at the opera, 'mid stress 
And thunder of the fugue, all torn with pain 
And harrowed to the depths, awaits the strain, 
The melody, that with its sweet excess 
Floods all the soul with restful mellowness. 
Like in a bay, and o 'er the auburn plain, 
Full swells the spring-tide from the heaving 

main, 
And lies in pools to catch the sun's caress; 
So in some souls, through pain and unshed tear, 
The wrapt, the listening look, the smile, betrays 
The swan's recurring song, and hope through 

fear 
To catch the lilt through storm and devious 

ways, 
Though changed in key, yet ever fresh and clear, 
The same through aching time and long delays. 



109 



OPEN WINDOWS 

Open the windows, my soul! ajar 
To breeze-borne melodies and fragrant June, 
To storm and starry night and sultry noon ; 
And send on fearless wing thy spirit far, 
Wind-swept o'er beetling crags the wild waves 

mar. 
With mist and spray and surge of seas atune, 
Past far pink dawns, to float on some monsoon 
To tideless calms where Summer islands are, 
And 'broidered meads are starred with asphodel, 
And sweet with song unheard of mortal man. 
And marble cliffs the bluest bays enlock, 
To that closed garden where the gods may dwell, 
To thither bring some twig for talisman, 
When at the gates at night I stand and knock. 



110 



MEMORY 

Short is the road unto the land of dreams, 
Where once I gathered blossoms all the day, 
For all the early lanes were sweet with May, 
All flower-bordered, sprinkled o 'er with gleams 
That burnished leaves and glanced upon the 

streams. 
And her dear hand in mine but yesterday ! 
And though so many miles o'ergone away — 
A weary road, so desolate it seems — 
The memory is fresh when I am worn; 
As in the arid wastes of alkali, 
Where withered weeds are choked with salt, 

and lorn, 
On shapeless mounds of sand whose edges fly 
With whirling winds, blooms sweet, on prickly 

thorn, 
The cactus, silken, red as evening sky. 



Ill 



MY CHILDHOOD HOME 

Through many wanderings I chanced again 

To see my dear old home of long ago ; 

Sweet Nature was the same, nor marked the 

flow 
Of ebbing time : the river, just as then, 
With sleepy curves, the cool and leafy glen, 
The bridge, the path, where I was wont to go, 
All bordered still with golden-rod aglow, 
Where sing the same the robin and the wren. 
But ah, the home, how sadly, sadly changed ! 
The fragrant fields, the orchard, verdant lawn 
And lane — all lost in a disfigurement, 
A checker-board of streets and houses 'ranged 
As if the earth were scant to live upon, 
And man forgetful and irreverent. 



112 



DEATH 

There is a deep whose black and dire abyss 
Brings awful pause to him who fears to sink, 
For on its void no lights nor ripples wink ; 
He steps as one from off a precipice, 
Astray at night ; but this he may not miss : 
The road is straight unto the very brink 
Which holds him there, nor may he move nor 

shrink. 
As one in dreams, though chased by Nemesis, 
Is paralyzed. Behind, into the night, 
The yesterdays have passed in dark retreat ; 
The happy earth and all his human kind 
Are shut from him, as one on darkened street 
Should see a drama in a -window light, 
And one should rise within and pull the blind. 



113 



TO THE SKYLAEKS 

Where scarlet poppies shimmer in the wheat, 
And flaunt their frills amidst the spangled oats, 
Their gauzy, silken, fluted petticoats 
All fluttering like torches in the street; 
There all the sky with ecstacies replete. 
Is gemmed with starry music from your throats, 
With bright cadenzas on the catching notes. 
So gossamer, so sparkling, and so sweet, 
With tiny facets of a thousand lights. 
And steady flow of pleasure ever new. 
Unstudied joy, as one who hums and wings 
A happy tune with little turns and flights. 
The whole day long, at work he likes to do. 
And never tires, nor scarcely knows he sings. 



114 



FATE 

"An unfair game" — was that you said, old 

man? 
Your head bent low upon the checker-board, 
With eye a-squint and forehead deeply scored, 
You blame the sly One ; but he has no plan 
To get you cornered, though his mind fore-ran 
Your empty moves. Your fret and fume ig- 
nored, 
He smokes his pipe and smiles that you are 

bored. 
And toasts himself at ease ; nor need he scan 
The board, for none can cheat. And ah ! he plays 
A winning game with any one whose nose 
Is on the board ; and patient, he, to wait. 
His move is always first, and this essays 
To handicap the weak, — but there are those 
Who do not lay their own mistakes on Fate. 



115 



MICHAEL MORE 

Part I 
In days ago there was a man 

Who had a farm to plough; 
So straight the furrows always ran, 

So clean the weeded field, 
Such heavy grain he made it yield 

The ears were forced to bow. 

He had a rose-embowered cot, 

Amid a garden gay 
"With lily, pink, forget-me-not, 

With jessamine, and more, — 
And Mary standing at the door, 

A sweeter bloom than they. 

Her voice was clear as meadow lark 
That shakes the dew and sings, 

In hazel eye an amber spark, 
Her cheeks as pink as dawn, 

Her hair like leaves upon the lawn 
That golden Autumn flings. 

'Twas in the sun an aureole 

About her brow of snow. 
Though clean as mountain heights her soul, 

She loved the joyous earth. 
With lofty thought and dancing mirth 

She pleased the high and low. 

And he was straight and strong and tall, 

With ruddy apple cheek. 
He was the pick of ploughmen all, 

Whose name was Michael More. 
And none could match him though a score 

Were sent abroad to seek. 

116 



But lie went hunting on a day 
When Spring was very new. 

Loud sang the birds on every spray, 
Where haze of yellow green 

Had not yet made a leafy screen 
To shut the sky from view. 

So merry rang the woods and brooks, 
He tripped a tune in trills. 

Though Winter lay in shady nooks, 
Still whiter was the sloe. 

On tender meads there was a glow 
Of yellow daffodils. 

Deep in the wood he drew the bow 

With lusty, joyous zeal. 
With hope to have a bag to show 

That she would like to cook. 
While resting in the ingle-nook 

He'd wait the toothsome meal. 

Came riding by a lazy knight. 

Astride a dapper bay, 
His scarlet coat ablaze with light. 

His steed arrayed in gold, 
And stepping high with metal bold, 

He spurned the bridle-way. 

And with him rode his gentlemen, 

In single file they keep; 
And when he reached a fairy glen, 

So quick he reined his bay, 
That, riding swiftly, scarce kept they 

From running in a heap. 



117 



There, out beyond, between the trees, 

They saw a forest lawn. 
A rustle of the fallen leaves — 

Swift sped across the glade. 
In hope of finding friendly shade, 

A doe and dappled fawn. 

'Twas then the lord did send a shaft. 

But missed his trembling aim, 
And all the host in secret laughed, 

To each uproUed their eyes : 
"When wassailer to forest hies, 

His bags will lack the game." 

Straight sped a dart as homing bee. 

As falling stone, a deer 
Fell to the grass. The company 

Cheered loud, while all the hounds 
Went scurrying, and all the wood resounds 

Unto the merry cheer. 

''Who is the dolt?" the prince demands, 
"Who sped the shaft?" says he. 

"This is my wood and these my lands, 
And they who dare me find 

I am of firm, unshaking mind. 
And of no charity." 

Out came the ploughman very bold: 

"I am your man," says he, 
"Your hounds may fetch the arrows cold, 

But mine bring back the game. 
A challenge to each man I claim. 

That he shall rival me." 



118 



They set a mark upon a tree, 
Aiid still the ploughman won, 

For none could aim so well as he. 
He won the prince as well. 

His skill and boldness held a spell 
Upon them, every one. 

They made a feast upon the grass, 

A snowy cloth they spread; 
They ate the deer and clinked the glass, 

And drank the ruddy wine. 
To louder talk they did incline, 

Till every face was red. 

And when the sun was very low, 

And threw a longer shade, 
It limned the trees in yellow glow, 

And dark their shadows, cold, 
To giants stretched. In green and gold 

Was striped the forest glade. 

Then each his horse he quick imtied 

And in the saddle leapt. 
The prince the ploughman bade to ride 

Behind him on his horse. 
Then laughed they all without remorse, 

"When up he sprang, adept. 

Their drunken laughter shook the wood. 

At such a wanton deed. 
"Oh, mud and gold! Oh, very good!" 

The ploughman joined with zest. 
Each bent with mirth, as if possessed. 

And slapped his shining steed. 



119 



Then was there such a scampering, 

And tearing up of grass, 
And starting off a-galloping, 

The forest quick they cleared. 
The startled woodmen, who appeared, 

Jumped back to let them pass. 

And out upon the road they tore, 

And raised a cloud of dust. 
Till none could tell what crest they bore, — 

A whirlwind in a blast, — 
"Hooray" and "whee !" — as on they passed. 

With songs of wanton lust. 

And when they reached the castle gate, 

The West a-flaming bright, 
Had reddened windows and the plate 

Of armoured sentries all, 
And e'en the cold and greyish wall 

Had caught a ruddy light. 

Then in they went, — ah woe the day ! 

When went the ploughman too. 
Who changed his coat for bright array 

Of crimson velvet fold, 
With powdered flora wrought in gold 

And gems of every hue. 

With awkward gait he moves in line 

With men of high degree. 
And with them seats himself to dine 

On plate of shining gold, 
On costly cloth that falls in fold 

Of stiff emblazonry. 



120 



The pillared hall of marble white, 

The rows of lamps ashine, 
Repeated in the mirrors bright, 

To mimic halls extend, 
Where stretching far without an end, 

At phantom boards they dine. 

And at them all the ladies, fair. 

In spangles and brocade. 
With rounded arms and jewelled hair, 

Were smiling at the knights. 
And clinking high with ruddy lights 

The goblets richly made. 

The spicy perfumes, rich and sweet, 

With Araby compare. 
There floated, too, from some retreat, 

A dulcet melody. 
To linked chords a harmony 

That honeyed all the air. 

Ah! dizzy was his head that night. 

And many nights to be. 
With all the wine and glitter bright. 

Till years had brought him grace, 
With manners fit to hold his place 

In such a company. 

A painful thought he still would hide. 

Of Mary, Mary More, 
Nor told to one he had a bride, 

For fear of foolish smile. 
He led a life that did beguile 

His heart from days of yore. 



121 



For best of all he won the king 

Who held the golden key 
To all that fame and money bring 

To fill him with delight ; 
And he was dubbed a noble knight 

For deeds in archery. 

So swiftly flew the many years, 

Ah ! quickly by they sped, 
And with their sure and sharpened shears 

They clipped his youth away, 
And left him stumbling, pussy, grey, 

With nose a cherry red. 

Part II. 
But what of Mary, with the years 

That dragged themselves away, 
With waiting long, and many tears, 

While others reaped the grain ; 
With hope and doubt contending vain 

That he would come some day? 

She sewed by day and in the night 

For ladies rich and fair; 
And in the dawning early light 

She brought it home to do. 
For should her loving hope come true 

He still must find her there. 

And every day, at fading light. 

She lit her candle trim. 
And kept it burning all the night 

Upon the window sill, 
That he might see it was her will 

To sweetly welcome him. 

122 



And when her garden was in bloom, 

It lit with yellow gleams 
The lilies sleeping in the gloom, 

And flowers dainty-hued 
Whose colours change at night, subdued 

To grey and white of dreams. 

And when the snow lay cold and white, 

And hid the travelled road, 
It threw a friendly beacon light 

For those who came from far. 
And beckoned home as did the star 

That o'er the manger glowed. 

"Within was warm and mellow glow. 

The hearth was all ablaze ; 
The apples sputtered in a row; 

The cider mug she filled; 
Then at the window, sad and chilled. 

She stood to gaze and gaze. 

Before her stretched into the night 

A waste of blue-white snow. 
No hint of moon nor starry light. 

For, black across the sky. 
The torn and ragged clouds swept by. 

For bitter winds did blow. 

They drove the snow in blinding sheet, 
They pinched the traveler's nose. 

They numbed the hands and froze the feet. 
From frosty window pane 

She cleared a space, and oft again, 
For with her breath it froze. 



123 



Oh ! who is that with bending gait 
To shield him from the blast? 

He may be coming though 'tis late; 
He draws his mantle tight 

And bows his head to 'scape the blight. 
But no ! he turned and passed. 

With trembling lip and tearful eye 

She sadly shook her head. — 
The apples all were burnt and dry; 

The supper meal was cold. 
An icy bell the morrow told ; 

And cold she crept to bed. 

And when the merry yuletide came, 

A pretty feast she made : 
She twined the holly round the frame 

That held his pictured face ; 
And on his chair in wonted place, 

A present for him laid. 

And then she waited long in vain 

For step that never came, 
With wish that was an aching pain 

The lifted latch to hear, 
His merry voice, so full of cheer. 

She never thought of blame. 

And so the years went slowly by, 

And busy years were they. 
For otherwise she needs must die, 

She was so sad and lorn. 
But in her heart a purpose born 

Did fill the night and day. 



124 



The years crept by aud she grew old, 
And dwarfish, humped, and bent. 

Her snowy hair she tightly rolled 
Into a scanty knot. 

Her outward mien she quite forgot — 
The shriveled tenement. 

On wrinkled face there was inserolled 

The riddle of the years. 
But few could see the curves that told 

A garden sweet and trim, 
A plot of bloom she kept for him 

And watered with her tears. 

Her sunken eyes were almost blind 

From sewing long and late. 
She used a stick her way to find: 

The neighbours knew the sound, 
And by the rap upon the ground 

They knew she passed their gate. 

She too would haggle at a mite, 

She lived so sparingly. 
To save and hoard was her delight 

For him she loved so well. 
And since no mortal would she tell, 

They called her miserly. 

In many letters much she said 

For him, and only him. 
That should he come and find her dead, 

He still should find her true; 
And hard it was to write them, too, 

When ageing eyes were dim. 



125 



The pity first that softened eyes 
And warmed the hands grew chill. 

They answered her with sharp replies, 
And called her "stingy crone." 

But children lisped in sweeter tone, 
And called her "granny" still. 

For them she had a tender heart. 

So unsuspicious they. 
A subtle instinct did impart 

The sweetness of her mind 
To little cherubs not yet blind 

With doubts that darken day. 

Part III. 
And Michael, — what had come to him? 

A thirst he could not slake, 
And spectral things with visage grim 

Would haunt his troubled sleep, 
The long, long night their vigil keep 

To pinch his soul awake. 

A skeleton with wings of bat, 

Begrimed and sooty black. 
Swooped down and by him sat, — 

An eyeless, grinning ape. 
Two shining rows of teeth agape. 

And all its joints did crack. 

It knocked its knees like rap of sticks. 

As fork with bending prongs, 
Extended arm and fingers fix 

Upon his heart a clamp, 
And on his forehead came the damp 

That to the grave belongs. 

126 



It bent and whistled, ' ' Come with me. ' ' 

All trembling he obeyed, 
And with it flew in agony 

Into a strange green light. 
The black earth, wrapped in gloom of night, 

A pall upon him laid. 

Swiftly, so close to earth they flit, 
The shadowed trees they graze, 

And, gliding up a hill with it, 
To pause, it gave a tap ; 

A whining wind his garments flap, 
As from a cliff they gaze. 

He strained to see, when lo ! behold ! 

The darkness lifted there. 
The precious dreams of youth unfold : 

The fields of golden corn 
That crimson poppies did adorn. 

As once his Mary's hair. 

The smell of earth came back again, 

So fresh from upturned soil. 
The tender spears that after rain 

Burst through the softened earth, — 
Then in no season was there dearth 

Of joy in honest toil. 

The pink embowered home in view; 

The fresh and fragrant air; 
And in her garden every hue 

Of all the tints that are ; 
The bordered path, the gate ajar, 

And Mary standing there. 



127 



The sun upon her yellow hair 

Like Autumn maple trees. 
With longing, that was half despair 

And keen with sharp regret, 
That he might still possess her yet 

He prayed on bended knees. 

Then, startled suddenly, he woke 

And up he sat in bed; 
A chilly sweat upon him broke; 

The room was dark and cold. 
The tower bell the hour told 

And many strokes it said. 

A palsy shiver shook his frame, 

'*I will go home," he said, 
''She is so good, she will not blame, 

Her love for me atones," 
He raised his aged aching bones 

And pulled himself from bed. 

Then hastily he dons his clothes, 

And opens soft the door. 
And feels his way as out he goes 

Along the darkened wall, 
A deathly silence shrouding all 

Except a sleeper's snore. 

Just as he reached the winding stair, 

He creaked a loosened board; 
Some dreamer called aloud, ' ' Who 's there ? ' 

And Michael feared to go. 
But breathless waited, standing so, 

Until the dreamer snored. 



128 



' ' Oh ! they would laugh, I would not dare 
To tell them," thus he thought; 

So crept all softly down the stair, 
Beneath the parapet. 

Past narrow windows l3lack as jet ; 
The sky was overwrought. 

The heavy clouds were black with rain 
That hid the full-faced moon, — ^ 

She showed herself but once, in vain, 
And lit with transient glow 

The winding river far below, 
The houses all aswoon. 

On down he went, and down, 

Across the double moat, 
Out through the gates and quiet town, 

All unperceived he passed. 
And then the rain that had amassed 

The ground in torrents smote. 

It flooded all the country road; 

It drenched him through and through ; 
It drove him with an angry goad, 

Bespattered him with mud, 
As in the road with splashing thud 

He smirched his costly shoe. 

And long he traveled, till a hill 

Had reddened to a blaze 
Which struck the earth with joyous thrill. 

And flooded her with light, 
As all the view in gay delight 

Unfolded to his gaze. 



129 



The mounting sun lit up the trees 

In tints of richest hue, 
Of Autumn shades in all degrees 

Of russets manifold, 
Of crimson, purple, yellow-gold. 

Against a sky of blue. 

The puddled earth held all the sky 

And mirrored, too, the glare 
Of maple, oak, and beech that vie 

To flash a gaudy sheen. 
The holly fruit with shining green 

Was scarlet everywhere. 

And all the birds had holiday; 

They feasted to their fill 
On cuckoo-pint and crimsoned spray 

Of clustered haw and hip. 
Belated bees the honey sip 

From flowers blooming still. 

Lo ! when he went the hill adown, 

All freshly washed and fair 
There lay the little country town. 

The row of houses small. 
Straight rose the smoke from chimneys all 

Into the fragrant air. 

But what was that that smote the air? 

A dread and direful knell. 
It was no call for early prayer; 

It sank him hopelessly, 
As ships that sink within the sea. 

That solitary bell. 



130 



Oh! what is that in mournful file, 

And what is borne ahead? 
Adown the street, as chapel aisle. 

With hat in hand, so slow 
They step, they scarcely seem to go, 

And wail as for the dead. 

And when the little band he reached, 
He asked them who was dead; 

And when they told he then beseeehed 
To look upon her face. 

"I am her love, though in disgrace; 
Oh! let me see," he said. 

They smiled a little that the crone 

A love had ever had, — 
So many years she lived alone 

They had forgot him quite; 
And he a mud-bespattered fright 

In regal robe was clad. 

But still so pitiful he plead, 

They lifted up the pall; 
He gazed and gazed, and then he said : 

"Oh, no! it is not she! 
There's some mistake, it cannot be! 

I beg your pardons, all." 

A wrinkled face that naught redeemed 
Save peace that rested there ; 

But how unlike the face he dreamed! 
Impression early made. 

The dream of youth that cannot fade, 
When she was wondrous fair. 



131 



He turned and homeward went; 

The gate was swinging wide, 
The air was sweet with spicy scent 

Of herb and eglantine ; 
All coral-strewn was hedge and vine 

With fruit in scarlet dyed; 

Against them massed the yellow heads 

Of gay chrysanthemums; 
In bronze and red and golden beds 

The regal asters flaunt; 
While honeyed fruit is still the haunt 

Where burnished insect hums. 

Along the bordered path he went 
Where reaching blooms would bar, 

Or saucy branch would fain prevent, 
And entered at the door. 

How very like the days of yore 
The chairs and table are ! 

For each was in its place the same; 

They mocked the days between. 
The flight of time they would disclaim, 

And all that intervened 
Was like a drama that is screened 

With only shadows seen. 

For there his desk against the wall 

Was by the window still. 
Save for the clock 'twas quiet all 

(Why did it tick so hard? 
It pulsed the silence, and it jarred 

His nerves against his will.) 



132 



Upon the hearth were sticks unused 
(The cold it shook him so!) 

He lit, he drew a chair, and mused: 
"Oh, she will come," he said, 

"Oh, Mary, you cannot be dead! 
Oh, you will come, I know ! ' ' 

He bends to where the fire glows. 

It lights his ashen face, 
And turns to flame his ruddy nose; 

His snowy beard extends. 
As frozen waterfall depends 

And still is held in place. 

A spectre shadow crossed the floor. 

And up the wall it went, 
A grave and silent summoner; 

For head a pick-axe grim, 
Across the ceiling mocking him 

It menacingly bent. 

A drowsy sleep crept slowly on 
When lo ! she came in white, 

A glory as the rising dawn 
Fell on her standing nigh. 

As bloom from painted window high 
Of softly tinted light. 

"Dear love," he cried, "I waited long. 

Come to my arms, my own ! 
They are no longer firm and strong. 

But still I love you, dear. 
All other days are thin and sere 

Save those together known." 



133 



How near she is, and yet so far ! 

Long aeons are between. 
She is as distant as a star, 

As nebulae her hair, 
That youthful face is less than air. 

Or ray of sun unseen. 

All suddenly, acold he woke. 

An ashen hearth he spied; 
The moonbeams through the window broke 

And lay in pools of light. 
As marshes when the sky is white 

And earth in darkness dyed. 

But soon with clouds the moon was blind 

And lost beyond repair. 
Then long he groped about to find 

A candle, but in vain, 
Till feeling by the window pane 

He found it standing there. 

A sudden fear possessed him quite 

As by his desk he leant, 
For by the flickering candle light 

A bundle came to view, 
Of many papers tied in blue, — 

But what was their intent 1 

Untying them, they fell apart, — 
And some were brown and old. 

And some were new and made him start 
As here and there a line 

Of drift he scarcely dared divine, 
A story that was told. 



134 



He read them all, a story long, 

Until the dawn was fair, 
Until he heard the robin's song, 

And folk were all astir. 
And by (than morning happier) 

The maidens tripped to prayer. 

He rose and went where down the file 

Had gone at yester morn. 
Still hurt at every passer's smile, 

He moved as in a dream 
Where real and shadow mingled seem, 

Himself alone forlorn. 

The children were amused, amazed, 

Pulling each other's gowns. 
And those behind that on him gazed 

In giggles bubbled o'er, 
"While others silence did implore 

With little hints and frowns. 

But when he reached the church-yard bare, 

A little form was bent 
Beside a grave new-made and fair 

With garlands brightly decked 
In many wreaths and colours flecked, 

And odours sweetly blent. 

He stepped to her serenely graced, 

Much older than her years, 
The others all were apple-faced. 

But she was pale and fair, 
Beseeching eyes as though in prayer, 

With manner that endears. 



135 



He said to her : "I was her love, ' ' 
But both were mystified. 

As saddened as a mateless dove 
Her slender voice let fall : 

"It was old granny," that was all 
The little one replied. 



136 



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